Social Cues
by Professor Maka
Summary: Soul Evans is a reluctant rock star whose disguise is his real appearance. Maka Albarn is an FBI agent on the rise, just in town for some training. Thrown together for a would-be date by a meddling mutual friend, they decide to turn the tables by dating for pretend. What happens when make believe starts to become all to real? Written for Resbang 2019
1. Prologue 1: Missed Connection

**A/N: Hello and welcome to my 2019 Resbang offering!**

**Thanks first go to the mods and my first partner Mystie, who had to put up with me for two straight years.**  
**Huge thanks as well to Guac and Adonewithyou, my awesome new partners. All of you have been wonderful and encouraging and have put up with my crazy, last minute shenanigans. Please check out their amazing art accompanying this on my tumblr.**

**Thanks also go to the many amazing betas who lent their eyes and encouragement to my efforts over the long haul, and to the Sinister Sisterhood, who always cheer me up and on.**

**Love you all. Happy reading.**

* * *

His foot tap tap taps against cheap linoleum from his perch atop the closed toilet as he desperately tries to work towards nerve or calm or just saying fuck it and leaving outright, who the fuck knows? Soul sure as hell doesn't.

Why the hell had he agreed to this again?

_She's really cool,_ Kilik had insisted. _She loves jazz, too, maybe you'd hit it off. Couldn't hurt you to get out. Just show up, eh?_

His ex-roommate had flashed a picture then, and Soul had said some inane thing while feeling absolutely nothing, and now here he is, hogging the dated, yellow, bachelor pad bathroom in a doomed attempt to _get his shit together already. _

A knock sounds at the door, the fifth or fiftieth, and a high voice asks, "Everything okay in there?"

"Occupied," he grits out for the dozenth time.

"Oh-kaaaay. Well, I really need to go, do you think you'll be done soon?"

"Gonna be awhile." It's half a grunt. He almost feels bad—she sounds a little desperate—but he can't quite bring himself to brave the perils of a blind date in the midst of a party, his worst nightmare made manifest, and _he'd actually agreed to it _like the flaming idiot he so clearly 's never even been on a date, yet here he is.

The girl on the other side of the door makes a noise of sheer frustration, but it's followed by heavy footsteps, so at least she's gotten the hint. Now to—do something. Maybe.

Gods, Wes must think he's fallen in. Well, that, or he's already managed to find his hook up of the evening and Soul will be left to his own devices. Not that he'd actually told his brother he's meeting someone, no fucking way. Wes is in town and bringing him had been his only option. He will never, on pain of death, admit that having his brother here is a mild comfort, _no no no no no. _

It's not like he's interested. He's _never_ been interested. Soul doesn't date because there's never been anyone he's wanted to date. Romance, love, sex—it's all in his book of no thanks. Yeah, he knows he's _supposed_ to want sex, knows the world thinks there's something wrong with him and maybe there is, but he just doesn't _care_. He flogs the snake when the mood strikes and that's that, no muss, no fuss, no gross spit to be exchanged.

The closest he's ever come to interest had been all of once, last year in a dive bar Kilik and Star had dragged him to. A chick in a short skirt, a long trench, and pigtails of all things had handed some rando his ass for daring to touch hers, then handed the guy's friend his ass in the bargain when he tried to step in. Watching her grind their faces under her combat boots before she was removed by the bouncer had been—well, interesting. Like he'd thought, hey, that's a girl he wouldn't mind talking to, even if she could definitely snap him in half.

Said girl has starred in a handful of dreams of the type he never thought he'd have, and that's that. That's the closest thing he's ever had to interest, a girl he watched kick fuck boi ass.

Maybe he _is_ weird. Or broken. Something. Doesn't matter—right now he just needs a sliver of the type of nerve that girl had to make his way out of the damned shitter.

Soul really shouldn't have agreed to this, he just gets damned sick of his friends trying to hook him up and had thought, stupidly, maybe this would get them off his ass and, hell, he doesn't mind talking Jazz for a night.

Forcing himself off the toilet, he stands and looks in the mirror. The gray beanie is hiding his hair pretty well. Good. He looks relatively unapproachable in the worn band tee and flannel, the air of slacker wafting off his attire. Better. This way, he should be able to find her and then decide what to do next. Great. Perfect. Turning the faintly rusted knob for the faucet, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face as a reality check, wipes his face on his sleeve, and turns around. Time to commence operation _what the fuck am I even doing._

Mercifully, no one is waiting outside the door as he opens it, white paint flaking from the worn edges of the doorframe as he pulls. He takes a few steps out and pointedly ignores the girl who charges past him, pigtails swinging in her haste to practically dive into the bathroom, in favor of scanning the room. It's loud, the press of bodies just ahead daunting, but the sooner Soul finds this Liz chick, the sooner he can suggest they maybe get some air. His eyes eyes continue to search the crowd, trying to separate the dizzying array of colors and limbs. Red. She should be in a red dress, her long blonde hair down, that's what Kilik said. Finding his brother is also acceptable, and maybe tall, pale blond in completely out of place designer slacks and a button up will be easier to spot.

Deep breath. Look again. Color, sound, light, smoke, the smell of pot and vomit and cheap booze. It's staggering. Nauseating. Sensory overload on every level. Soul has never been made for parties.

_Ah!_

His eyes zero in on a tall figure with a pale swath of hair against one wall. He'd recognize that overly neat hairstyle and overpriced shirt anywhere. Wes is pressed to the wall by another person, clearly having found his conquest for the evening. Or the other person's conquest. Whichever.

This time, it's a woman, with long blond hair and a slinky red dress.

Red. Dress.

His eyes scan the side of her face, or as much of it as he can see with her lips glued to his brother's mouth. The feeling of voyeurism is distinctly uncomfortable, _but_—

Shit. _Shit_. That is unmistakably the girl from the picture, Liz, who is equally unmistakably making out with his brother.

Fuck. His life. Leave it to his brother to hook up with the one blind date he's actually agreed to. The anger is completely unwarranted; truthfully, Wes is doing him a favor. But just—_really?_

What the fuck ever. He'd made Wes drive himself, so Soul heads for the door, relief and embarrassment and anger all wound up with the anxiety that cripples him. He doesn't need this shit.

Cool air hits his face and his head clears, relief washing over him. No more sensory overload, no more date, no more brother for the night. Good. _Great_.

Finding his bike, he gets on and speeds off, glad to leave behind yet another absurd act in the shit show he calls his life.


	2. Prologue 2: Plot

"Who was that?"

She's only just hung up and pocketed her cell phone when he walks up behind her, arms snaking around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Maka," she says with a sigh.

"Who now?"

Liz wiggle-spins in his arms, leaving her back to the side of the deck and trading one gorgeous view for another—city or chiseled features, she'll take either.

"I _know_ you remember Maka. She may have run off for all that FBI shit, but she was still my roommate for six months before I graduated. Remember? You used to call her—"

"Oh, _Milady Pigtails, of course! _How could I have forgotten? She still curb stomping the scoundrels of the world?"

"Probably, though that was all of once, and you didn't even know us yet. _Any_way, Maka is coming into town next week for some sort of—" Liz lifts one impeccably manicured hand from his shoulder and waves it idly. "—training thing, and I invited her to stay here."

"Stay _where_, exactly? Not that I mind, but I don't feel right about having a friend of yours on the couch."

Liz scoffs at this, openly. "Soul's room. It's not like he's used it in months. When does that tour end, anyway?"

Wes laughs, the motion shaking both of them. "This week. He called last night, told me he'd be home Saturday."

"Maka comes in Sunday, _shit_."

"So you see my concerns about your friend on the couch."

"Maka won't mind." Liz shrugs. "Or Soul can give up his room for a week. You know him, he'd whine but he'd do it."

"Orrrr your friend can get a hotel. You know the FBI pays for such things, yes? I'm sure your friend would prefer it over usurping the living quarters of some strange man."

"Soul isn't a—" she begins, but then wrinkles her nose. "I guess they haven't met, have they? Oh, alright then, though some days I think Maka really _needs_ to share the living quarters of some strange man."

Wes laughs again. "Of course you would. I've watched you try to find someone for Soul for years before mostly giving up."

The look she gives him is pure Brooklyn. "As if you _didn't_."

"Fair. Anyway, maybe they'd get along, but I doubt her taking over his room for the week will—"

"Wait—" Liz interrupts, an idea blooming, a devious smile spreading.

"What?" Wes looks confused.

"Maybe they _would _get along."

"They're nothing alike from what I remember."

"Exactly." Her smile widens. "Opposites attract. Look at us."

"It could work—_if_ they didn't live hundreds of miles apart."

"Minor details," she scoffs. "We lived hundreds of miles apart when we met and look at us now!"

"I suppose," he concedes, looking thoughtful. "I mean, it's not the worst idea you've had. But how, exactly, do you propose to make this happen?"

"Weeelll, if your brother will be in town, they'll be seeing each other. And we could be busier than we actually are, leaving her in need of a tour guide, since she doesn't know the area. But I figure it could start with us being unable to get her from the airport."

"She can't Uber?"

"Friends don't make friends Uber, Wes. And your brother is in town with nothing better to do."

"You're sure?"

She raises one fine eyebrow; he laughs.

"Point taken. It's Soul. Blake could drag him out, though."

"Blake would be the first on board, you know that. Probably call it a mission, code name 'whiny emo boy needs to get some.'"

"Also point taken."

"So we're doing the thing?"

"You're doing the thing. I prefer plausible deniability when it comes to my little brother." Liz raises her eyebrows again and he adds with a laugh, "Or at least, since it's your plan, I can _maintain_ plausible deniability."

"You'll totally throw me under the bus if this goes sideways."

"Absolutely."

Wes chuckles as Liz smacks him lightly on the chest, then kisses him, a little peck.

"I hate you so much."

"And yet, here we are."

"You're lucky you're hot."

He grins cheekily and says, "Yes, yes I am," before stooping down to kiss her soundly, the conversation giving way to other things.


	3. Part 1: The Plot Thickens

He can't fucking believe he's gotten roped into this. The last thing he wants to do at fuck o'clock on a Sunday morning after months of touring, the very _last_, is to pick up some chick he doesn't even know from the airport. This is so fucked. Fucking Liz and fucking Wes and their fucking guilt trip over a goddamn stranger.

Not her fault though, so he'll be nice. Or try to be, anyway.

The _airport_ though. Soul fucking _hates_ LAX; it's busy even at the ass crack of dawn on a Sunday morning. Who the hell books a Sunday red eye, anyway? And why can't she just Uber like the rest of creation?

The subject of his ire walks up to his brother's silver luxury liner shortly after. He's standing leaned against the idling car, where it's supposed to be no waiting but it's too early for the cops to bother. She'd texted that she has her luggage (because of course Liz had shoved their respective phone numbers at each of them 'just in case') and now he's holding a sign with her name on it (another thing Liz had insisted on) feeling like a complete toolbox as her wide green eyes brighten at the sight of him. Black tank top, jeans, hair in a ponytail, it must be her, by Liz's description and the picture she'd forced him to commit to memory—looking far too chipper for a late night flight and 5 AM arrival.

"Hi, I'm Maka!" she says brightly, taking her hand off her rolling carry-on to stick it out expectantly. He takes it with only a second of hesitation and tries not to show surprise that such a small hand has such a firm grip. FBI. _Right_. She could probably hand him his ass without so much as working up a sweat. It's not a terrible image, but he shoves it down anyway, especially since she looks a little bit too much like mystery college bar curb stomping warrior girl who had starred in a dream or twelve.

"Soul," he says, nonchalant. Or he hopes it sounds that way; meeting new people has never been his thing, but he can front indifference like a pro.

"Nice to finally meet you, I've heard _so_ much about you!" Maka says, and she sounds like she means it.

"Uh, yeah, same." He pulls away his hand because they've been shaking just a shred too long for comfort and runs it through the back of his hair. In truth, he'd never even heard of this girl before—other than the odd story about Liz's college roommate and their exploits (or more like Liz's attempts to get her driven, bookworm of a roommate out more)—but Liz had filled him in a little more last night, little being operative. She's an FBI agent, she lives in Death City, Florida, where they all went to college, she loves to read, and she does Mixed Martial Arts in her spare time. Then again, what more does he need to know? He'll drive her home, show her around, eat dinner with her and Wes and Liz, then call it a life. He's earned some down time, some Zelda and Jazz and sleeping in until 2 PM, but he can handle one day of playing tour guide if it keeps Liz and Wes off his ass.

"Here, uh, lemme—" Soul fishes around in his pocket for the keys, curses upon realizing they're in the running car. "Hold on a sec," he puts a hand up to signal she stay then scrambles around the car like an idiot, fishes around for the trunk release because it's not his car, also like an idiot, gives up and pulls the key fob from the center console, exits the car to go to the trunk, scans to find a key slot that isn't there before realizing the fob opens it, duh, and presses it. The trunk opens, and somewhere in all this, Maka has appeared beside him, duffel over one shoulder while her other hand guides her suitcase. She's already slung both in the trunk before he knows she's there, and he moves his mouth wordlessly before getting out, "but, I was gonna—"

A shrug. "I can put my own bags in the trunk. You've already gone to the trouble to pick me up, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Well, then. Not knowing what else to say, he mutters, "Cool," and walks to the driver side, figuring anyone who puts their own luggage in the trunk probably doesn't want or need him to get the door for them. Since she's in the car a second after he is, sliding wordlessly into the passenger side, he decides it had been the right call and waits for her to click on her seatbelt before shifting into drive.

For several minutes, as he exits the airport then gets on the freeway, there's silence. It's not comfortable, but he figures it'd be rude as fuck to just click on the radio, so he clears his throat awkwardly.

"So, I was thinking we'd go by home, get you settled, then I can show you around a little. Liz insisted you need a tour guide and I aim to please." Soul tries not to sound like the snarky fuck he is at heart, but clearly, this is easier said than done.

"Liz _would_," Maka says, voice so flat he flicks his eyes her way just in time to catch the eye roll. "But you really don't have to. You've already picked me up—which, thank you—and I'd hate for you to go more trouble. I'm perfectly capable of availing myself of Google and Uber to see the city."

"No trouble," he says, and he finds, to his own surprise, that he means it. It's not that he wants to play tour guide, more like Liz finding out he _didn't_ is far more hassle than just showing her friend around the city. Besides, Maka seems kind of cool, and it wouldn't kill him to spend time with a real live human who isn't a relative, dating a relative, or part of the band.

He catches her sharp side eye in his peripheral vision as he exits the freeway. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure. May as well eat up Wes's gas, right?"

"Ah, this is his car?" She sounds surprised.

"It takes a very special person to own an Aston Martin. I am not that person."

Turning her head fully to him, she tilts it thoughtfully. "Then why..."

"Trunk space."

"I don't have that much stuff!" Maka scoffs, her frown deepening as he laughs.

"I really didn't think you'd want to ride a Harley trying to balance a rolling case, but I suppose it's technically possible." Soul punctuates the statement with a small shrug.

"Guess not," she agrees. "Though it'd be a story to tell at the very least. Something to share on Instagram to the amusement of our friends and family, the two of us balancing a rolling bag between us on a motorcycle."

The last thing he expects is to laugh again, for her to laugh with him, but it's a ridiculous enough image that they both end up exchanging full body chuckles. Soul can't remember the last time he laughed so easily and it's just _strange_—he's never this comfortable around anyone, let alone someone he's just met. Maybe it's the jet lag—for both of them—because he's also not really all that funny.

The laughter breaks the awkward tension, inevitable when two complete strangers share a space as tiny as the front seat of a car, and their conversation becomes easier. She asks questions about the city that he answers, honesty tinged with sarcasm on his current MO. Maka is full of questions about the ins and outs of living in the city, far more so than he would expect for casual tourism, but he finds he doesn't exactly mind, even if her curiosity is a bit _extra_.

Maybe he can redirect them into some sort of productivity. Not that he minds being her personal Wikipedia of Los Angeles, exactly, but they'll be back to the apartment soon and he'd like some idea of where the hell she actually wants to go. Yeah, he's a shit tour guide. He hasn't planned ahead, and she seems like the type who won't really be cool with aimless wandering. Pissing her off will piss Liz off, which would be a pain in his ass—but more than that, Soul finds he'd rather not have her think he's a complete piece of shit. He rarely cares, but somehow, this time, he does.

When the conversation reaches a slight lull again, he asks, "So now that you've picked my skull clean of fun facts about LA, what do you think you wanna see?"

"Mmm—the Getty," Maka says immediately. "And maybe Griffith Observatory? It's not like I can see the whole city in a day, but those two are at the top of my list."

"That's—sure. That'll work." Avoiding Hollyweird, which is most people's go-to, is a plus, and he likes the view from Griffith and the Getty. Art museums may be a little too reminiscent of his childhood, but they've got killer restaurants, so he can deal.

"Great! I know Liz probably put you up to this, so I appreciate it. It's always more fun to see the sights with someone else, you know?"

When he ventures a glance her way because they're stopped at a light, she's smiling, large, green eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners. He hates how genuine it seems and how flustered that makes him feel. FBI agents should not have smiles like that. Or maybe that's what they all have—get people to let their guard down so they'll give up the goods, what the fuck does he know?

Swallowing, he nods. "Yeah, glad I can help."

It's not totally honest because he himself is always fine seeing a new city alone, but Soul doesn't mind seeing _this one _with her, now, even at this ungodly hour of the morning. He really should be perpetually irritated and the fact he isn't is two parts relief and one part _what the fuck even._

Mercifully, they pull into the building garage just then, a partially underground structure that houses the vehicles belonging to the high rise next door. There's an assigned spot on the ground level right near the entrance to the lobby that he pulls into easily, right next to where Wes's other car and Liz's little sedan would normally reside, and where his own motorcycle is currently parked. Having a penthouse apartment in LA does come with certain perks, one of the few things that came from his parents that he doesn't mind. The shame and guilt and complete inability to live up to their social demands he could live without, but he will never scoff at convenient parking.

They get out, and he manages to get to Maka's pullman before she does, though she snags the duffel. At least he won't be empty handed and feel like a heel. As she slings it over her shoulder, she side eyes his bike.

"Someone's overcompensating," she mutters, and though it sounds like a joke, her face darkens.

"Thaaaat would be me," he admits, and enjoys that she turns a rather bright shade of red perhaps more than he should.

"Oh—yeah—you said before, that was stupid of me. I mean—it's just—" It's the first time since he's met her that Maka is out of sorts, not that an hour is a long time to achieve mortification.

"'S fine. I probably am." Soul grins at her with the full smirk generally reserved for fucking with people, then gestures towards the lobby door. "Ready?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." She starts walking, and he starts walking, and they end up side by side in the elevator shortly after. Once he presses the button, Maka mutters, "Sorry. You're allowed to like motorcycles." He wants to tell her it's fine, that he's faced far worse, but his voice feels tight, trapped.

He breathes out a long held breath as the door dings open and fishes out his card to swipe in the reader next to a small, second elevator.

"Keycard and a separate elevator—penthouse then?"' She looks at him and he shrugs.

"You know Wes—only the best. Our parents gave him the place for his twenty-first, and he's content to bask in whatever they shove his way."

Humming something like affirmation, Maka follows him into the elevator and they make their way up to allow her to get settled. They've got a full day ahead of them, and he figures she might want a breather.

He figures wrong. After showing her to her (his) room for the week, Soul goes into the living room expecting her to take her time. She's out in less than thirty minutes, showered, changed, and even more bright-eyed.

Well, hell. Except, what else would he have done for the couple hours he thought she'd take to settle, flip aimlessly through cable?

Whatever, then.

"Hungry?" He raises his eyes her way from the couch where she stands before him in a pair of _short short short _jean cutoffs and a tight little yellow t-shirt that reads "Nope not today." Her hair is down. He tries not to notice that the change puts strong, long legs on display, thighs so muscular they could surely strangle someone, and, fuckitall, is he really noticing shit like this _now_ of all times?

"I could eat." Maka nods. "And I might kill for good coffee." She probably _could_, too. Easily. With just her legs.

"Got just the place." He gets up and walks to the door because standing and gawking at those dangerous lower appendages is a bad idea, and she follows readily.

Soul isn't really sure what today will bring, if it's going to be a long day or not nearly long enough, so he quashes down the odd swirl of trepidation and anticipation as he leads her back downstairs.

* * *

Maka is surprised that she doesn't hate riding with him on his bike. She hadn't even raised an eyebrow when he led her to it rather than to Wes's overpriced swagger mobile; seeing as she'd already shoved her foot in her mouth once today about the enormous black Harley emblazoned with orange flames she'd figured she owed it to him to sit down and shut up for this one. Sure, she'd had to swallow down some bile to do it, but it's unfair to shove her own issues at him just because her dad likes motorcycles, too, so she had kept quiet. And really, she can see the appeal. There's something freeing in riding the thing, even when she's just a passenger. She can deal.

It doesn't take particularly long to pull up to a low building downtown with a neon sign. Painted on the side of the building, to one side of the colorful awning that rests over the entrance at the street corner, is "Original Pantry Cafe."

"Ohhhh I've heard of this place!" It's pretty famous, though she hadn't thought to go here.

"You wanted to see the sights. Plus, it's 24 hours and the food is good." Soul pulls into a metered spot along the street kitty corner to the restaurant between two enormous SUVs, a spot far too small for most cars, which is probably why it's empty given there'd been a line to get into the restaurant. It seems a little crazy to her there's a line at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, but this _is_ Los Angeles.

The line isn't long and moves more quickly than she would have guessed. Since they're stuck together for the day, they talk, mostly because she does—Soul seems content with silence if she doesn't keep up the conversation, but she's always been curious, so she asks him about himself, and when he seems hesitant there, starts talking about music. On this subject, he's absolutely _animated_, and by the time they've made it through breakfast—biscuits and gravy for him, pancakes and sausage for her—Soul has practically insulted her love of EDM and is telling her exactly why she should really try listening to more Jazz.

"Is that what you play?" Maka asks, thinking maybe she'll finally hear more about his so far elusive life.

"Ah." He lifts a hand from the table to run through the back of his hair—it's a tell for when he's nervous, she's already come to discover. "Nah. Don't have that kind of talent. We're more alt rock."

"Like—" She thinks hard, because she basically listens to whatever turns up on her Spotify dailies and sometimes it's rock-ish stuff. "Imagine Dragons?"

"Sort of." Soul doesn't exactly look pleased with the comparison, but before she can ask what he's got against the band, their check arrives, so they pay and leave. It's now 9:30, and she's already checked to see that both of their destinations open at 10. She feels a little giddy at the thought; Maka has always loved experiencing new places, ever since she was a child, and it's been so many years since her parents took her to Los Angeles that nothing is familiar. Plus, they had been focused on Disney—Maka wants to see the real stuff.

"So? Where to first?" Soul asks, and though Maka knows it's a natural question, it still feels a little eerie given how attuned it is to her train of thought,

"I'm not sure," she muses as they approach his bike. "I've always wanted to see Griffith since it's in so many movies, but the Getty is supposed to have a really great collection. What do you think?"

Soul half shrugs as he zips up his leather jacket and hands her a helmet. "Getty has a great restaurant. We hit that first, we can do lunch when we're done and then hit Griffith. Both are gonna be slammed either way on a weekend."

"Sure!" Maka really doesn't have a preference for order, and while she isn't ready to think about lunch yet after that enormous platter of food, she doesn't mind if he wants to go later. He's an odd one, though not in a bad way, with his emo white hair and red eyes that Liz has assured her in fair warning are natural, along with his ripped jeans, tee, and leather. He seems to want to give off the bad boy, devil may care vibe, and he snarks enough to nearly pull it off, but he's also been pretty considerate about a lot of things in ways that show the careless vibe is only a very small part of the story. He's a bit of a puzzle, and Maka has always enjoyed puzzles—it's a lot of what makes her so good at her job and why she'd been chosen when the LAPD had asked the FBI for help dealing with their ongoing problems with excessive use of force.

It's another thirty minutes to get to the museum through traffic since it's not downtown. The tram from the parking lot offers an amazing experience as the view spreads out below, and the place itself is large and filled with historical artifacts and art of varying descriptions. Soul seems bored at the art galleries, hands shoved in pockets as he trails her, but shows more life when they hit display after display of period furniture representing a wide time span. It _is _pretty amazing, though Soul rolls his eyes when she insists on a picture in front of the regency furniture and exclaims, "This is the type of room Jane Austen would have been in every day!"

Lunch is good, too, or rather, brunch since it's Sunday—a little more refined than would normally choose for herself, but her crab Benedict really _is_ delicious, and she finds she enjoys his company as they talk about movies and discover_ The Princess Bride _is both of their all time favorite.

That conversation, too, ends with a check, and she's never been so annoyed with prompt, courteous waitstaff in her life—which is pretty ridiculous in and of itself considering they're strangers and spending the day together. Still, more pieces of the puzzle have been coming together and Maka hates being interrupted when she's on a case, even if it's just the case of her own burning curiosity. How does a man like Wes Evans have a brother like _this_? Maka had figured the day would be full of polite nothing talk and fending off silly and unwelcome attempts at flirtation judging by the elder brother, but she has gotten pretty much the opposite. She's not displeased by this in the slightest—Soul is far better company than she would have guessed, quietly funny with all that snark, intelligent, and extremely unobtrusive. They could be friends, she's pretty sure, if they had longer than a day to bond. Ah, well. It's not like she really has time for more social connections anyway.

They leave the Getty after their meal, and it's another 40 minutes to Griffith. She's getting very used to sitting behind him on the bike, thinks she might understand her papa's love affair with his own motorcycle just a little. The thought is like a splash of cold water to the face, and she can't help it, she stiffens. Soon enough, they park, and she doesn't mean to be, but she's quiet, trying to stuff down the aftermath of the internal emotional landmine she's just unwittingly set off.

Then again, as Maka allows herself to take in the scenery once they cross the wide, crowded parking lot they'd only gotten a space in because there's actual motorcycle parking, maybe she'd be silent anyway since it feels a little like she just stepped into a movie.

Griffith Observatory is as impressive in person as it looks on film, sitting atop a high point of Griffith Park with the city spread out below. Off to the right side of the observatory is the famous Hollywood sign nestled along the cliff side. It feels almost surreal as she walks past the fountain and into the building, but that's about where the awe ends—the interior proves to be very like many other space museums she's ever been to, as does the show on the cosmos they watch in the dome. It's honestly a bit disappointing, but then, Maka knows more than most how little can be beneath a dazzling surface, so perhaps she should have expected as much.

Still, she enjoys the quiet, critical commentary they exchange over the exhibits and show alike, enjoys that they also both like space. They talk about the vastness of space, how scary it is, how amazing as they take in the view of the city. It makes her a little sad when Soul mentions how small, how insignificant it makes him feel—for her, it's always made her want to create her own significance and make her life burn all the brighter. She can't help but wonder if maybe he's doing the same and just doesn't realize it as they make their way back to the apartment to get ready for dinner.

* * *

They arrive at the restaurant a few minutes early at Maka's insistence—Soul can already tell how methodical she can be about many things, and punctuality is clearly important to her. Still, he finds that he doesn't mind having her pressed against him on the bike, and they leave early enough that he can take a slightly longer route along Pacific Coast Highway. The view is gorgeous as the sun sets, and since they hadn't hit the beach, he figures she deserves to get the best possible view of it in passing. _Of course_ they are going to Mastro's—upscale with a stunning view, it's the type of place Wes just loves to take people new to town. Normally, they wouldn't drive half as far for food.

The ride is still too short for his tastes—he's never loved the whole feeling of being under glass he always gets at really upscale places like this—and before long, they've arrived. The place mostly looks like a long, low building, but the wood sculpture install in the front screams money, as do the several valet attendants and the oceanfront location. They pull up, and since valet parking isn't a real option on Etta, the valet gives them a sniff and directs them to a small, discrete area near the front. As there are a pair of black Ducatis already parked there, Soul figures he's not the only patron with a taste for wind and speed. Maka gets off the bike easily behind him, and once he stows helmets and riding jackets, he has to force himself not to gawk—hard to believe someone who is apparently MMA champ of her FBI branch office cleans up this way. The green dress is fitted up top with a flouncy flair at the bottom and it's both _short_ and low cut both. Her hair is down in soft waves, perfectly framing those wide green eyes. He's never taken much note of anyone in the way he's noticing her and there's an alarm going off in his head, but he ignores it in favor of offering her his arm.

"Shall we, Ms. Albarn?"

She rolls her eyes but takes his arm anyway, her smile infectious as they make their way into the restaurant.

It's not his first time here, not even his second. Soul has been here many times before, usually when his parents are in town, and it looks the same as ever—lots of wood and fine china and linens and a long wall of windows. The view of the ocean is as amazing as ever; the rest looks pretty much like dozens of other overpriced places he's been to. As they are directed to a table, weaving through the crowded space, he maintains bored indifference, though he notes Maka looking around, eyes even larger than usual. Her mouth gapes a bit for an instant before she snaps it shut.

"This—is nice," she says, unusually subdued.

"Wes," he says with a pronounced eye roll.

"Figures," she answers as they halt at a table in the center of the large wall of windows. "Do you know he insisted on flying Liz and I to Washington DC to eat for my 21st birthday? Booked the chef's table at the Inn at Little Washington. The handful of times I've been to a place like this it's _always_ with your brother."

There's an awkward throat clearing and the maitre d' gestures to the table. "I hope you'll find this acceptable. Mr. Evans was quite explicit in his instructions."

Maka seems unsure, so Soul nods. "It's fine, thank you." The maitre d' bows. "Your server will be with you shortly, but should you need anything in the interim, feel free to ask at the podium." With that, he walks off to seat others, and Soul is left standing with Maka. He remembers his manners in time to pull out a chair for her, earning him yet another eye roll, though she _does_ sit. Soul sits across from her next to the window—he figures since they've arrived before his perpetually fashionably late elder brother, they've earned being closest to the view.

"So. Here we are," he says into the sudden, awkward silence within the din of humanity that surrounds them. Soul has yet to open the menu the maitre d' had left at his place setting, noting Maka is perusing that same menu with her brow crinkled in concentration. "I'd order whatever the f—" He remembers himself, his company he doesn't know well and the place they're at. "—heck you want since it's probably on my parents' dime and Wes saw fit to drag us all the way out to Malibu."

"I—don't exactly have a refined palate." It sounds like an admission of failure, her features set into a tiny frown, her shoulders stiff. He knows that look, that posture. Maka feels even more out of place than he always has. For Soul, it's old news. For her—it's one of a handful of odd experience his brother has so benevolently gifted her with.

"Doesn't take sophistication to order filet mignon and a pricey wine—this is a place known for their steaks and their cellar. Since Wes isn't here yet we can order before they even walk through the door if he's true to his usual timing."

"Oh,_ thank the gods!_" She lets out a loud breath, and when Soul raises his eyebrows, adds, "I thought I'd end up stuck with snails like the last time." The face she makes is priceless. He himself may like escargot, but it's not for everyone. "Your brother likes to order for people."

"Yeah, he can be an ass without even trying." He offers a small shrug. Wes's thoughtless yet officious ways are annoying and endearing all at once.

The server is taking their sweet time. There's a dip of silence again, and he feels his phone buzz in his pocket as his gaze strays to a view of the last rays of the sun dipping beneath the water. When he sees Maka digging into her own little purse, he decides to check his phone.

It's from Wes, and he reads the words over three times in extreme exasperation.

_Got held up. Looks like it's just you and Maka. You can thank me later._

What—the fuck?

Before he can even think of what to say, he hears Maka gasp, "You've got to be kidding," just as the maitre d' approaches their table again.

"You'll have to excuse the interruption, Mr. Evans, but it appears your brother won't be joining you this evening. He has left instructions to order whatever you'd like and will be covering the bill. I do apologize, and offer his suggestion of a bottle of Dom Perignon. We have a very nice 2009."

"Bring it," Soul says with a slight, unintentional sigh. "Thank you."

The maitre d' bows and leaves for the second time, and Soul lets out another sigh. "I'm so sorry about this."

Maka shakes her head. "Don't be. A fine meal with good company on your brother's dime? Nothing to be sorry for. Anyway, if anything, it's my fault."

"Your..?" He blinks his confusion.

"_My_. Liz has been worrying over me being single since college—we are clearly being set up. So I'm sorry you got dragged into her—concern, I guess."

Soul can't help his loud guffaw and she raises fine, light eyebrows in question.

"It's just—I figured they were setting _me_ up. My brother has been pestering me about my love life since I hit puberty. Looks like we're both their damn patsies."

A head shake and a laugh from her, then her smile grows devious. "Or they can be ours. I say this calls for payback."

That smile gives him shivers he'd prefer not to explore. "I'm listening."

What would payback entail? Running up their parents' charge? He's intrigued, yet at the same time, he has no idea what she's getting at. Soul doesn't get to find out either, not yet, because the server chooses just then to finally show. He sets up a stand with chilled Champagne at the end of the table and pours two long stemmed flutes from the already opened bottle.

"Now, then." He straightens. "Have you made any decisions on hors d'oeuvres?"

Maka blinks at the man so Soul orders. "We'll start with the seafood tower."

"Excellent choice."

Apparently his dining companion doesn't agree as her lips twist in distaste. Well, it's on Wes, may as well go for broke. "And you, Maka? Maybe a soup or salad?"

"Um—Caesar...?" It comes out like a question.

"Of course, Miss. Will there be anything else for now?"

"No, I think we're good." Soul hates being in the spotlight but he hates how uncomfortable Maka seems even more. The waiter bows and leaves and Maka lets out another breath.

"I'm a grown woman. I really shouldn't be this awkward at a nice restaurant, I'm sorry," she mutters, more sheepish than he would have thought her capable of.

"You're fine." He shrugs. "I'm more interested in this payback you mentioned."

"Oh!" She brightens, devious smile returning, though it morphs into a frown an instant later. "I mean, it's probably a bad idea."

"I'm sure it can't be worse than leaving two virtual strangers together at a restaurant without their consent."

"_As bad_, maybe."

"Still listening."

"It's a terrible idea, it really is," Maka repeats, but before Soul can tell her to get on with it, continues with, "but, it would be—kind of funny to pretend to hit it off."

He blinks at her for a second and laughs. "You mean like, pretend to give them what they're after? Like we're—what—_dating?_"

"I _told you_ it was a bad idea." She's nearly pouting and it makes him laugh more, full bellied chuckles that draw a few raised eyebrows.

"No." He shakes his head, still laughing, putting up a hand as he catches his breath. "It's _perfect_."

And really and truly, Soul thinks, it _is_. It's not a plan he'd ever have dreamt up himself, and he finds himself in renewed awe of the dynamic woman before him. The thought of spending more time with her is far from a bad one, and somehow, he doesn't think it'll be much of a stretch to pretend he's fallen for her.


	4. Part 2: Counterplot

Waiting at the curb of the police department for her ride home, it's strange how much Maka looks forward to another ride with Soul on the bike.

They've only known each other for three days, and only been at this whole pretend dating thing for two, but it's already nearly as easy as walking.

Soul sleeps in his room now, though on the floor, and they kiss each other lightly periodically when Wes and Liz are in view to make sure it's convincing, the type of quick pecks that most couples limit their PDA to. They also hold hands, and they spend free time together, which means evenings. They'd worked out the details and boundaries over the rest of dinner—light lip pecks, hugs, cuddling, and hand holding were all agreed to, as were sharing the room but not the bed. Weirdly, though Maka has shared more kisses with him than in her whole life before with anyone save her mom and dad as a kid, and while she had hated it the handful of times she'd shared a closed mouth kiss with her high school boyfriend, she is surprised to discover she sort of likes kissing him. His lips are soft and warm and he smells good;she enjoys their time together.

When she finds herself wondering if open mouthed tongue kisses would be better with him than that one time Liz had offered to teach her she still couldn't look back on without turning her stomach, Maka cuts the thought off quickly—there lies the path of danger. There are very good reasons she doesn't date— her entire childhood is a catalogue of them—and anyway, she's never had any interest in sex or romance, so why bother? Wondering about how a kiss with tongue would feel with a boy is something even 14-year-old Maka had never done, so 24-year-old Maka refuses to start now.

The fact he pulls up just as the thought leaves her head doesn't help any, but her FBI training on keeping an emotionless vissage serves her well as she takes the proffered helmet.

"Hey," she says with a smile as she puts on the helmet. "Thanks for playing chauffeur. It's much better than renting a car—I owe you."

"Anything for my girlfriend." His cheeky grin has her laughing as she adjusts the strap on her helmet and gets on the bike behind him.

On the agenda for the evening is a rain check of that dinner they were supposed to have with Wes and Liz, the same dinner where she'd cooked up this whole scheme mostly in jest and Soul had surprised her by agreeing.

Honestly, it was maybe the best idea she's ever had.

Although, Liz has already asked her how the sex is ("none of your business" will only keep her at bay so long), so Maka will have to come up with something, but her experience with sex is limited. She doesn't even count that one time with Kid when they tried dating in high school and decided together they should probably take the next step in their relationship. The whole ordeal was so traumatic that it ended with both of them swearing off sex for life and deciding to just be friends. Since Kid is now an avowed sex repulsed asexual in a firmly platonic partnership with their mutual friend Crona, and since Maka herself has as little interest in sex as her declared friend even if she refuses to give herself such a label, clearly she is just not a particularly sexual creature. That reality certainly doesn't make satisfying Liz's insatiable curiosity any easier.

It's not like sex is the end all and be all of much of anything anyway. Well, unless you're Liz, who loves to share every graphic detail of the pleasures of her extremely active love life and expects the same of one of her closest friends. But Maka can't share what she doesn't really know and her one terrible try really isn't giving her a well to draw from. The best she can manage from experience would be, "it hurt and was awkward and uncomfortable and neither of us finished." Hardly a glowing recommendation there.

Well, she'll work it out. She's read smut.

With a sigh Soul surely won't hear over the rumble of the motorcycle, Maka watches them weave through some traffic. They've been on the road for a good long while now and she wonders where the hell they're actually going. They have a "date," as they have every night so far to keep up appearances, and he's chosen the venue the other times since he knows the area. To his credit, he tends to choose venues she mentions interest in—first, dinner on the Universal City walk, then yesterday, a movie night in Hollywood and hot dogs at Pink's. But those had been relatively close.

Tonight, their dinner is an official double date. Figures Wes would make them drive to Tenbucktwo for whatever hot new place has struck his fancy this time—they've been driving a good hour and are still on the 5 freeway headed south. _Where are they going?_

She is about to ask, but they slow down to exit, so Maka figures she'll find out soon enough.

They pass by a mid-sized outdoor shopping centerl and then pull into a large strip mall. Detached but on the property is an odd mishmash of a place with a sign that must have been from the 50s and looks like it belongs in Vegas, along with fronting that was clearly redone in the late 80s, complete with pastel neon. The sign reads Chris & Pitts BAR-B-Q, the last word set off in large, showy, sparkly letters.

It looks like the very last place Wes would ever choose to eat at on purpose, and as they park in the crowded lot in yet another spot too small for a car, Maka frowns as she removes her helmet. Having expected a Wes meal, she's probably way overdressed for this place with the little black cocktail dress she'd changed into before meeting her ride. Great. She hates dressing up, and here she is in a stupid dress for no good reason. Figures.

Soul, in the know, is in jeans and a tee shirt under his leather jacket. Lucky _ass_.

"Ready?" he asks when all is stowed. She just nods, still wondering at their locale, and they enter the place together.

The interior is as baffling as the exterior. It's _crowded_, but they have a reservation, so they are brought past a large dining area that looks like a 60s coffee shop, full of red vinyl booths and faux wood, into the other half of the place that more resembles a 60s lounge, with the same red leather vinyl in circular configurations around dark tables. The room itself is dark and feels like it should be smoky, though it isn't. Fifty years ago, though, Maka is sure it would have been. This half of the place feels like it needs a piano and lounge singers and goes perfectly with that first gawdy sign outside.

They're seated at one of the round booths and handed single sheet laminated menus that look like something out of the 1970s, and scanning down a list of BBQ and homey favorites, she's just confused.

Wes—really chose this?

"So?" Soul raises eyebrows expectantly. "What do you think?"

At a loss for words, the cogs whirl and Maka lets out the long stewing question: "Wes likes this place?"

The guffaw throws her and she really ought to have figured it out by now.

"Oh, fuck no—_I_ like it, and Wes will hate it, so here we are."

"_Ohhh!"_ The laugh sounds nervous, but really she's not. She's amused. She's intrigued. "How did you even _find_ this place?" she blurts.

"Sometimes I like to take drives. Long ones. Just—explore. Found this on one, sign caught my eye, and the food blew me away. Doesn't hurt it's tacky as hell."

"Ah," she says because there isn't really anything else _to_ say. It makes sense. The place suits him, somehow, and she finds herself sort of liking it herself, just based on the tacky decades spanning mishmash. Hopefully the food passes muster, but knowing him, it's a silly thought—if there's one thing she's discovered about Soul Evans, it's that he's serious about food, and surprisingly for the brother of such a well noted food snob as Wes, all Soul cares about is how things actually _taste_, generally rejecting upscale places for what he calls "real food."

"What's good here?" she asks.

His eyes light up at this. "The barbeque—ribs if you like 'em, brisket or chicken if you don't. The chicken fried steak is also pretty damn good. Definitely get your salad with blue cheese—and the onion rings are great. Different, but great. A side of blue cheese with those is pretty much a must."

"Um, I like barbeque chicken?" Maka eyes the menu then spots a good compromise. "They have a combo with chicken and spare ribs, so that sounds good."

"Good choice," Soul agrees with a sage nod like she's making a life or death decision before cracking a small smile. His smile suddenly widens, becomes almost devious, but she really doesn't have to wonder why as she follows his eyeline to spot Wes and Liz being led by the same hostess who had seated them, the trio weaving through the lounge full of shiny red vinyl towards their table. Maka catches a look of distaste on the elder Evans' face for the briefest instant before he catches his brother's eye and it turns up into a hundred watt smile, though it admittedly looks a bit forced.

"Nice place, little brother," he says as he slides into the opposite side of the booth. Liz slides in next to him and offers Maka a slight eyebrow raise that she's afraid to decipher, before taking up the menu before her and eyeing it with some relish.

"Gods, I don't think I've had decent ribs since we took that Spring Break trip to Texas. _Please _tell me the ribs are decent." She levels amused blue eyes at Soul.

"It's like you don't even know me." His voice is flat and his face impassive.

Liz lets out a hearty laugh. "Point taken. Ribs it is, then." She glances to her partner in crime, who is currently busy sweeping his own lighter blue eyes over the menu, nose slightly crinkled in distaste. "This is my a bit more my speed, hun. Maybe let me order for you for once? Or you could let Soul, since he—"

Cutting her off before she can get out the rest of that clearly dangerous thought, Wes says, too cheerfully, "Of course, order away!" Maka notes Soul's amused smirk at the whole exchange. He's clearly relishing his brother's fish out of water discomfort. She has to stifle a laugh herself, covering it with a small cough.

They get the rest of ordering sorted, deciding on onion rings for the table, but the server is nowhere in sight, so the table falls into awkward silence in rather short order.

"So, are you enjoying your time in Los Angeles?" Wes finally starts, ever the gentleman.

"Ah, yes, absolutely!" Her smile is genuine. "Soul has been a wonderful tour guide, and there's so much to see! We went to Groman's Chinese the other night, and while it was worth seeing, he surprised me with a second movie across the street at El Capitan and that was _amazing!_" Soul had gone on quite a bit about the intricacy of the woodwork; over the few days they've known each other, Maka has quickly learned that he has a bit of a thing for old architecture. The thought makes her smile widen.

"Ah, well, I'm thinking my little brother has some extra motivation for being an exceptional host." The look he levels, innocence and innuendo all at once, is pure Wes. "And is your work here going well? I should apologize that this is the first chance we've had to get together. Between my upcoming concert with the Philharmonic and some of the new signings, I've been much more occupied than expected!"

Liz, also smiling apologetically, puts in, "And work has been hell for me. Swamped with cases." There's something beneath Liz's smile that only training and intimate knowledge make apparent. Amusement. Ah, well, of course they're avoiding them. Trying to give them time to cement their fledgling "relationship." She might have figured out as much earlier. Clearly, Maka is slipping.

"Oh, no worries—as I said, Soul's been a fantastic host." She makes a show of turning slightly to squeeze his shoulder affectionately and offer him a small peck on the cheek. Maka ignores the tickle of his slight stubble and the intriguing red that always spreads across his cheeks when they put on their show, and continues, "and I've been busy, too!"

"So stuff with the PD is going well?" Liz asks, her face all amusement now.

"Oh, definitely!" She can't help her enthusiasm. "I wasn't sure how receptive they'd be given their history, mind you, and some aren't so willing to accept criticism, but more seem eager to get it right. And this type of training is so necessary! I'm learning a lot too, and hoping I can really put together a program for local law enforcement that'll make a difference. AD Azusa is hopeful, but—" She cuts herself off, realizing that she's about to veer into sensitive but unclassified information that is far too in the weeds for civilians. "Anyway, it's going well. I just wish I had another few weeks to go on a few ride alongs, really make sure it's set up to go forward, but I'm hopeful that they can make it work with what I am able to do with them." She could talk about this for ages, but has long since come to realize that most people only ask out of politeness, so curbs the impulse.

"And you, Soul? How's everything with the band?" Wes puts into the slight pause, and Soul's face, as Maka glances his way, goes from neutral to guarded and bored in an instant. Curious about this fabled band he avoids talking about, she stays silent and attentive.

"'S fine. Star is annoying, as usual, Ox drives us like we're his personal servants, also as usual. Nothing going on for a few days, anyway. Told 'em I was busy."

Wes waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously at this, a brotherly gesture that's new to her, then laughs. "So no public appearances by the great Soul Eater for the rabid masses, then? Awww—you'll make your emo fangirls cry!"

"Wes!" Soul growls, and when Maka glances his way again she notes he's gone scarlet. Soul—Eater? Now that one's new…

"Who the hell is _Soul Eater_?" she blurts.

Both sets of eyes turn her way, red eyes horrified, blue crinkled in amusement. "What, you haven't told your girlfriend about your double life? Why, little brother, I'm ashamed. Here." Wes shoves his phone under Maka's nose and she blinks, looking down at a picture he's pulled up. It looks like a promo shot. She recognizes it, actually—they'd had a feature of this band in the last Alumni magazine, though the band hadn't done an interview. Blake Starkey smirks up at her, hair now spiked a vibrant blue; Maka would recognize that pain in the ass anywhere. She'd also vaguely known the guitarist, Harvar 'D'eclair, and the drummer, Kilik Rung, when they were all in college. The only one she doesn't recognize, the same one she hadn't recognized in the article, is the bass player. He stands a bit apart, dressed all in black, with long black hair and black, pupiless eyes that must be contacts. The sharp teeth, just visible, catch her eye. She hadn't recognized him before, but the resemblance is unmistakable, even past the wig and contacts and heavy makeup.

"It's _you_!" she says, and Maka can't help it, she grins. "_You're_ the mysterious Soul Eater! I read an article in the Alumni mag last month! It's a big mystery, right?"

The "mysterious Soul Eater," for his part, puts his head down, a muffled groan coming out from behind his arms.

"_Of course_ you read the Alumni mag," Liz says with a laugh just after. "But yes, that's our little Soul, all grown up!"

Soul just groans again from his arms. Maka pats his shoulder reassuringly. "Well, I think he looks good. Very emo. They say the girls are wild over it."

"It's smart, too," Liz offers over another groan from their current subject. She leans forward from across from her somewhat conspiratorially, and says, much more quietly, "He looks so—" she pauses, clearly searching for a diplomatic word. "_—different_ normally that no one would guess his emo alter ego is actually Soul Evans, reclusive second Evans heir."

Finally overcoming clear mortification, Soul lifts his head and looks at her. Maka hasn't seen him look sheepish yet in their short acquaintance, but here they are. "Better than being chased around like a damn piece of meat."

Maka nods sagely. "It is fairly brilliant. Disguise 101—hide in plain sight. Maybe you missed your calling. You might make agent yet."

As he perks up just a little at this, voicing a quiet, "really?" she nods again.

"Definitely. If no one's found you out, you must be making a pretty good show of it. It's hard even for trained agents not to break cover." Noting the uncharacteristic quiet from the other side of the table during this exchange, Maka glances their way and nearly groans herself at twin satisfied grins. She sometimes forgets why her old college roommate and Soul's brother work so well together; they're both _devious_.

"Anyway," she starts again, hoping to shift the subject to alleviate Soul's clear discomfort, but before she can say more, the long absent server finally makes an appearance, a squat, no nonsense, middle aged woman in black pants and a while button up who looks like she'd be more at home in a Denny's.

They order, Liz getting Wes some ridiculously oversized sampler platter, and their evening continues, Soul's secret identity left behind as the conversation moves back to the sights of Los Angeles and ranges widely from there. At one point, Wes looks down from actually enjoying his plate of plebian victuals to realize he's managed to Jackson Pollock his pristine white shirt in the burgandy of barbeque sauce and excuses himself in abject mortification, appearing minutes later looking as put together as ever in a different pristine white shirt, and notably leaving the rest of his barbeque untouched, much to her own amusement. Only Wes would think to bring a spare shirt. His brother is more than happy to help himself to the uneaten ribs and chicken across from him, and the evening continues companionably.

Maka is reminded of just how much she misses Liz and even Wes, of just how much she misses feeling like she belongs, just a little, and marvels at how quickly Soul has become a part of that most of all.

* * *

He can't believe he'd been roped into this on about a dozen different levels, but he especially can't believe that Wes has wrangled Maka a place in the audience, right smack on the other side of Liz.

Firing their agent/manager is too much work or else he might consider it, but Ox really _is_ good at the job, and there's no way in hell Harv would ever go for it in any case. Still, the agent likes Wes way too much for his personal comfort and peace of mind, as exhibited by—this predicament.

At least she can't be surprised since Wes had so kindly blurted out the gory details of his alter ego yesterday at dinner. Doesn't mean he wants to subject her to "Soul Eater" live and in person.

Welp. No choice now. Eyeing himself in the mirror, he habitually makes sure his black wig is on firmly even though he's more likely to mess it up than anything—Tsubaki, their stylist, is also really good at her job. His eyeliner is more flawless than he's ever been able to get it himself, the black lipstick is smudge proof, and his skin is as pasty and smooth as alabaster in contrast to the head to toe black he wears: ripped jeans, tee, leather trench, docs. Red stone earrings are the only color he sports, and somehow that manages to make him look even more like a scene kid—he is emo incarnate.

Fingering the black stone necklace he'd found years ago at a thrift store and has never been able to part with since, he relishes the cool feel against his fingertips. Soul Eater stares back at him in the mirror, dark, pupiless eyes narrowed in thought. He's ready—he just wishes he were _ready_—but as there's a knock on his dressing room door, he realizes it's too late to do anything about anything. Shuffling towards the door, his slouch is so pronounced he can almost hear Maka chiding him from here. Less than a week he's known her, and already she's invaded his inner monologue like an avenging voice of reason.

Soul really doesn't want to parse why she's so often on his mind or why he even gives a fuck about what she might think of his persona. Fortunately, he has no time to dwell on this as a handler leads him to the staging area and he has to listen to instructions on how they'll proceed. It's not their first television appearance, but it's their biggest to date, and he's positive that if they fuck this up, Ox will roast them all on a spit.

It goes as well as might be expected. They play the two songs in radio circulation, Star makes an ass of himself during the interview as he loudly exclaims himself a rock god to the amused annoyance of the vaguely British host, and Kilik cleans up after him with his characteristic level headed charm. Harv offers the occasional clipped answer, and Soul does what he always does in these situations—occupy space on the edge of the long couch like living stone, saying nothing, eyes fixed anywhere but on the host.

In this case, his eyes manage to find Maka in the front row next to Liz. She looks intrigued and, when she notices it's her his eyes have found, offers him an encouraging smile. He has to pinch his leg to keep from smiling back; _Soul Eater_ does not smile. It's odd, because her existence in the audience had been the harbinger of intense dread, but he finds her actual presence almost soothing, she's such a steadying force. He's much more comfortable now than he's ever been before in an interview with her in the audience serving as a touchstone for his sanity, and Soul thinks maybe, just this once, Wes' interference isn't so bad afterall.

* * *

Maka finds she likes her time in the local PD.

It's a far cry from the constant analysis she does for the FBI, sifting through case reports of apprehensions, trying to ferret out how things might have been done differently, or better. How she had ended up working on deescalation techniques when she'd wanted to be a field agent was a matter of happenstance—when the Assistant Director had first assigned her to sift through some reports as a new agent because they'd yet to find her a partner, it turned out that she was _good_ with reports, good at analyzing situations for practical solutions, and somehow, this became her niche.

Sure, Maka gets field assignments on occasion, but Assistant Director Azusa considers them research, a grounds for her to test and refine her analysis. Her real job is developing suspect apprehension protocol and training and now here she is, putting them into practice with large groups of local cops and not just evaluating and advising field agents. It's sort of—gratifying, to think the work she'd never sought, that she had fallen into nearly against her will, could actually make a _difference_.

It doesn't hurt that her audience largely seems so damn receptive. There's a hyper awareness among most of them that they've got it wrong, must have it wrong if they have to resort to using their side arms so much, and they really seem to want to learn. Well, most of them. There are those who scoff at her instruction, but there will always be those who resist change.

It's her last day with the department and she finds it bittersweet. She's been here a week and as much as it's been a good week on so many levels, as much as she'll miss the work she'd been able to do here, she really should be getting back to her home and her work and her life.

And her friends!

Kim has kept up a fairly constant stream of texts, mostly relaying new branch gossip, but_ still_. Nice as it is to have time with her old roommate, she does have a life to get back to.

Only, that's not quite right, either; she really hasn't had that much time with Liz, not nearly as much as she'd hoped. And of course, she'd also hoped to see Patti, too, but Liz's free spirited younger sister had apparently traipsed off to backpack through Europe for the foreseeable future. Mostly, Maka has spent time with Soul, a stranger until less than a week ago. Maybe that's why the thought she's leaving in two days makes her feel so hollow—she really hasn't had the time with her old roommate she'd wanted, and she's well aware her friend is avoiding her _on purpose_ out of some misplaced sense of officiousness. Maka might dub it the one failure of her brilliant plan, but that she knows Liz well enough to know that she would have backed off to throw her together with her future brother-in-law regardless.

Still, she really _has _enjoyed her time with her fake boyfriend, which will make talking to him as they take their "relationship" long distance that much less painful. Maka has come to think of him as a friend, and considering how she tends to feel about most members of the male species, that might be the most puzzling part of all. Well,_ to her friends_, who can't believe she fell for a guy so _fast_.

They're thrilled but shocked, too, which amuses her to no end. It's not like she's a misandrist, after all, more like most guys aren't worth her time. The fact Soul _is_ worth her friendship might surprise her, but in a good way. She'll take it.

Think of the devil and he shall appear.

Soul pulls up on his bike to get her and Maka offers a little half wave, a smile creeping up unbidden at the sight of him. He's forgone his helmet, which makes her shake her head out of sheer habit, and his hair is wild and ridiculous over his riding goggles.

"So," he says before she can get on the bike. He's pulled the riding goggles up to his hairline and looks a bit like an out of place early aviator as he blinks at her nervously, shifting on the bike in clear discomfort. "The guys keep bugging me to meet you, and since you're goin' back soon, it's now or never—" he bites his lip "—and, well, I prefer not to be pestered by Star until the end of days, or worse, have him show up at your doorstep uninvited. He does shit like that."

"Yeah, sounds like the Blake I knew," she agrees and his eyes widen a bit. "I _told_ you I recognized him, remember?" Maka responds to the unasked question. "I tutored him for two years in English during college."

"I'm so sorry," Soul deadpans, face visibly relaxing.

"Don't be. It was good money and he was sort of fun when he wasn't being a complete ass. And anyway, you have the upper hand here unless he's already recognized my name, which—" She shakes her head but doesn't continue. Soul doesn't need to know about all that unless he has to. The less people who know of her teen angst silliness, the better.

"Didn't tell them your name." He reddens a bit, his hand in the back of his hair as it always is when he's embarrassed or nervous.

"Well, then, you definitely have the upper hand, and I can handle Blake, so let's get this over with, shall we?"

A swallow, a nod, and a forced smile later, and Soul hands her the spare helmet, still forgoing his own. Maka stifles the urge to lecture him on motorcycle fatality stats and allows herself to enjoy the ride, the feeling of his sun-warm back, the Southern California evening equally warm against her skin. With sudden clarity, she realizes how much she's going to miss this and holds on that much tighter, basking in all of it before it becomes just another memory.

* * *

Soul isn't sure if this is the best or worst possible luck.

Taking another deep swill of bad beer, he tries not to focus on how hot Maka feels against him as she shifts again in his lap. _In his lap_. Without enough room on the couch of the studio they're currently practicing in, Maka had simply sat where any red blooded girlfriend might sit when seating is sparse and a boyfriend is available, plopping onto his lap unceremoniously. He knows it's part of the show—it makes it that much more tortuous.

The fact Star keeps throwing innuendo and amused looks their way doesn't make things any better. Well, at least they're buying it. Then again, his bandmates have known him long and well enough to recognize he's never been this way around anyone and can surely see the inner mush beneath the carefully crafted facade. It might sell their dog and pony show, but it doesn't make his reality any easier. Because somehow, someway, Soul has developed _feelings_.

It's all new for him, but the fact that he likes Maka and, more, is _attracted_ to her, has surpassed even his ability to deny. She keeps starring in his dreams in ways only one other girl has ever had the honor of, his mind sometimes conflating the two, and it's damn awkward when he's sleeping on his own floor with her on the bed a bare few feet away. Hiding awkward boners is becoming the center of his sad little existence when he's never had to worry about such gross mundanities before. Why her, _now?_

It's a question he could probably answer if he would allow himself to dig deeply enough into his own twisted psyche, but Soul fears the answer too much to try, so he subtly shifts to keep his involuntary response to her proximity firmly trapped against one leg by his jeans.

So far, the evening has gone well enough. They'd arrived, his band mates had gawked and fussed over Maka after she was introduced, they'd practiced, and now they are doing their habitual post practice unwind. Ox and Harv have gone for pizza, which leaves the rest of the band plus one. Of course Tsubaki is also here, but since she's Star's girl and their stylist to boot, that's par. Maka is the shiny new toy, and his bandmates are acting accordingly.

"So, FBI, right?" Kilik has started up again. "And you're settling for this emo bum?"

Her light laugh gives him shivers as she makes a show of giving him a peck. "_Talented_ emo bum," Maka corrects, and_ god_, was that meant to be innuendo? He can't help but go scarlet and the whole group laughs, very likely at his expense. Maka is far too good an actress and it's going to be the death of him.

"Weird name, Maka," Star buts in. "Knew a Maka once, you even look a lot like her, minus the pigtails, plus different last name, unless—" He pauses, eyes narrowing in calculation. "—you didn't get married or something?"

"Or something." She suddenly looks embarrassed. "I used my mom's last name in college." Before Star can even get to the anticipated_ but why_, Maka adds, "I had my reasons." Soul has his own suspicions as to what those reasons are since she's already mentioned her dad is head of the police force in Death City, the town where they'd all gone to college. "You ever get any better in English?" she adds, all smiles now, and Star looks uncharacteristically floored.

"Holy shit, it _is_ you! _Mad Maks_! How the fuck ya been?" He's bolted from where he'd been perched on the opposite arm of the couch to pull up a stool right in front of them, far too close for comfort. "Can't believe you finally popped my man's cherry. Shoulda guessed you'd be his type!"

"Mad Max?" Soul blurts, because _what?_

Still on his lap, Maka seems completely unfazed. "One of Blake's stupid nicknames." She rolls her eyes. "Don't even try to tell me he hasn't given you one."

Well, yes, but Mad Max seems a bit—

His confusion must be writ large on his face because Star answers for him. "Aw, common, Maks, tell Eater here allll about your curb stomping exploits."

Maka sighs, leveling a flat stare towards Star before swiveling those wide green eyes his way. "It was one time," she says with another sigh. "Some guy grabbed me in a bar, and I—reacted."

"You mean you ground his ass into the beer stained linoleum?" Kilik adds from next to Soul on the couch. _Wait_—how would Kilik even—

"Annnnd did the same with his buddy," Star guffaws. "You were there, dude, you think you'd recognize your future lady."

"Wait—you_—knew_ her?" Soul feels gobsmacked. Maka is… _that_ girl?

"Oh, nah. Kilik sort of knew who she was 'cause he had English with her once, then when I needed a tutor in she walks, pigtails 'n all." Soul had excused himself pretty quickly after the fight, having felt completely lightheaded between the beer and adrenalin of watching, so clearly he'd missed a thing or three. He wants to kick himself at the thought that Maka is that girl—_that girl_—and he could have met her years ago when they were all in college if he weren't such a damn dirty social recluse.

Instead, he just says, "Huh, Mad Max. Slayer of handsy fuck bois." Is she actually turning red again?

"Not to mention most of the MMA club," Star adds with a shit eating grin. "I got her to join and she _wiped the fucking floor_, had dudes twice her size tapping out."

Kilik nods sagely. "Definitely kicked your ass a time or three."

"Hey, now!" Star stands in protest, kicking back the stool in his haste. "I beat her, too!" He thumps his chest at this, then grins again. "But a god's gotta let his minions have a win sometimes, ya know?"

For her part, Tsubaki breaks her habitual silence on the other end of the couch. "Ohhhh! So this is the girl you were telling me about who won the featherweight title when you were in college?" she says to Star. "How wonderful that you two met!" She's practically gushing as she gets up from the other side of the couch, beckoning to Maka. "Would you mind telling me more? I was on my university Kendo team and I'd love to compare notes."

Before Soul knows what's happening, Maka is up off his lap, the space feeling cold and empty without her heat.

"Sure! I wanted to get another drink anyway." She and Tsubaki chatter animatedly as they make their way to the little bar on one side of the small studio. The room suddenly feels like it's spinning and it's not just from the warm beer. How does everyone know all this about Maka—but _him_? Her—her—_fake boyfriend?_

As he stares after them in silence, Soul yelps as he feels a sudden punch to the arm. Star has rounded to the side of the couch and is currently grinning down his way as he stands over him.

"Daaaaayum, you really do have it bad, don't you?"

Soul sighs, admitting defeat, because if finding out Maka is his literal dream girl has done anything, it's to crystalize the fledgling feels that have already begun to plague him. After a lifetime of being perfectly content alone, leave it to him to fall for his fake girlfriend, a woman who wants nothing to do with romance.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I really do."

* * *

They're hanging out in his bedroom later the same night, a tablet balanced between them to watch some Netflix, when she gets the call. It's 11:30 and Maka fishes out her phone, vibrating in her pocket as it emits the standard Samsung ringtone. She blinks down at it, then back at him.

"I—gotta take this. I'll just—" she springs up, gesturing towards his en suite as she goes before disappearing behind the door with a click. Soul pauses the episode of _Naked and Afraid_ and tries not to eavesdrop. Still, he's curious. Pretty much everyone Maka knows who isn't in this apartment lives three time zones away, which means it's _late_. _Who? _And _why? _She hasn't gotten many calls and none she's taken in his presence, let alone this late.

Not that it's any of his business. Soul just wishes he didn't find himself wanting it to be. He especially wishes she didn't have to take calls on one of her last nights in town; she's leaving Sunday morning. Just two tomorrow left and then she'll be gone, back to her life clear across the country in Death City, Florida, back to everything he'll never know.

From his bed, he can hear her voice, the cadence, the pitch, but words elude him. She sounds clipped and businesslike. Work call, maybe? Or—who knows? Maybe she just always sounds like a secretary on the phone. It's not like he's got much experience to gauge it. Realizing he desperately wants to know doesn't mean much, so he swipes up his phone to keep from listening longer. Not like he can hear shit anyway.

The bathroom door clicks open and she's out and launching herself onto the bed seconds later, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Maybe it wasn't a business call? Maybe—what the fuck does he know—maybe she's got a secret lover on top of a fake one? The stupid, passing thought has him going cold. Maybe—

"That was Assistant Director Azusa," Maka begins, a little breathless, and when he doesn't say anything, she clarifies. "My boss." He nods his understanding, trying not to let the relief show. For her part, she's practically vibrating with excitement while clearly trying (and failing) to temper her enthusiasm.

"Kinda late for a work call," Soul finally speaks into her expectant pause.

Nodding, her smile widens. "Yes, but it's time sensitive. See, the AD just got off the phone with the chief of the LAPD." She takes a deep breath, then let's her grin widen. It's breathtaking, how genuine excitement lights up her face. That smile puts the admittedly adorable hello kitty pajamas she wears to shame. Her next words interrupt his chain of thought and change his world. "They want me to stay another two weeks! To further evaluate and train—so I can make sure everything is in place and actually working!" She bounces on the bed in her excitement and launches herself at him suddenly in an enthusiastic hug.

"Can you believe it!" she squeals, then stiffens, pulling back a bit to blink up at him. "_Oh my god_, Soul, I'm so sorry! I know we're not supposed to—I mean—" Joy has given way to fluster and he wants his dead arms to move, to hug her back, to do something, _anything,_ but he's frozen in place, his own emotions a cocktail of hope and joy with a strong undertow of despair.

"'S fine," he sounds gruffer than he means to. Clearing his throat, because she's inching back, face falling into a neutral mask, he rushes to clarify. "I mean, we're friends now, right?" She nods, face still blank, so Soul goes on. "Friends can hug when they get good news," he reassures her. "It's cool."

The way her face lights up and she launches back into his arms is far, far more than cool. This time, he makes sure to hug her back before they break apart to resume their junk TV marathon.

Two weeks. He gets two more weeks with her in his life. And clearly, whatever else they are pretending to be and aren't, Maka agrees with his assessment of friends. It's less than he wants, Soul realizes with sudden, sharp clarity, but more than he deserves. He'll take it, take his two weeks and worry about the rest when she's gone.

* * *

It's not the type of place Maka frequents on purpose, but at least it has character. The nature of that character may scream disrepute, sure, but she's seen worse. Sticky wood plank floors, covered in discarded peanut shells, rickety wooden tables with even more questionable looking tube metal chairs upholstered in what looks to be the cheapest burgundy vinyl known to man, and a haphazard stage made of what is very clearly badly finished plywood and cinder blocks are the most notable features of the room. It's dark and it's smokey, any legal prohibitions against the later very clearly ignored by patrons and proprietors alike.

Those patrons look like a solid mix of seedy types—bikers, dealers, and a hell of a lot of users peppered with punks. People she's more likely to see on the wrong side of an apprehension report than out and about in her every day life.

But Maka isn't home, and she's trying to be a good fake girlfriend and support her fake boyfriend's budding career, so here she is. She'd say she'd preferred the trip to Hollywood and her brief stint as a part of a studio audience full of madly screaming _Death Scythes _fans, but this is so much more relaxed in spite of the questionable appearance of the clientele that she takes another sip of what is actually a well made old fashion and tries to make the best of it. Perhaps she can consider it field research of a sort. And anyway, it's not really unlike a dozen bars Liz had dragged her to in college. Or that she'd dragged her papa out of during his worst days just after mama left. She can deal.

The _Death Scythes_ aren't due on for another thirty minutes, but Maka had felt grossly out of place backstage, so she's decided to take in the ambiance of the place, such as it is. Ox had carefully explained for seemingly her benefit that this was a surprise appearance he'd arranged this morning to keep the band fresh. There won't be fans, though they used to play this dive in the early days. Despite having to stifle an eye roll at the same habitually condescending tone she vaguely recalls from shared classes back at University, Maka does appreciate that there won't be a flood of screaming fangirls. As much for Soul as for herself, really. She may not _get it, _because most guys would kill for the attention, but Soul hates it. It's why he wears the get up. It's also, maybe, part of why she likes him so much; he really isn't like most guys.

The thought is cut short as her phone vibrates in her pocket. She pulls it out with a frown. _Who…?_

Of _course_ it's Kim. She might have known. Powder pink stares back at her, the hair color of the month, as she swipes to take the video call.

"I'm a little busy, hold on a sec," Maka says, immediately vacating her sad little table near the stage to weave her way to the entrance.

A minute later, she's outside in the warm LA night. There are cars going by, but it's still quieter than the roar of intoxicated humanity inside.

"Alright, what's going on? _Please_ don't tell me Azusa changed her mind. I'm supposed to have at least another week and I really think—"

"Cool down," Kim cuts her short. "This is a social call. You've been avoiding any and all deets about this mystery guy of yours, and I heard a rumor you guys would be out together tonight, so—"

"You looked up my friend Liz and called her, didn't you?"

Aquamarine eyes framed by soft pink blink back at her innocently.

"_Kim! _You know if Azusa finds out—"

"She won't." A disembodied voice says from somewhere off screen. "Did you really think I wouldn't clean up after?"

Ah. It figures that Jackie, their resident computer expert, had done her girlfriend's bidding.

"Can't leave you two alone for a second, can I?" Maka grumbles down at her phone.

Kim doesn't dignify this with an answer, not that Maka expects one.

"Soooooo," she says, and it might sound casual if Maka weren't already on high alert for shenanigans. "Where is loverboy, anyway?"

An eye roll later, Maka speaks down at the pink menace on her screen, "Not available."

The double scoffs are enough to make her smile.

"No, really. He's in the band. They aren't on for another 20 minutes."

The mistake is made before she can take it back, and Maka barely stifles a groan.

"Oh my_ god_ you're dating _a musician_—"

"I know I mentioned this."

"You _said _he was in the music industry." Kim doesn't even need to roll her own eyes—her tone is pure snark. "_Not _in a band that plays dive bars." At Maka's raised eyebrows, Kim sighs. "_Yes,_ I had Jackie triangulate the location of your phone by satellite, did you think you were dealing with amatures?"

"_Whatever_." Maka doesn't have time to be as pissed as she probably should be, and she's well used to Kim's nosiness anyway. "Look, I should go back to my table before I don't have one. I'll call you later."

Her fingers hover over the end call button as Kim shrieks her name in pure outrage, and Maka hesitates just that second too long, long enough for her friend/coworker to blurt, "Keep us on and let us see him, asshole!"

This time, the groan does make its way past her grimace. "Fine," she growls down at her so-called friend, "But you better _keep your mouth shut!_ And I'm turning it off after the first song. He's the bass player." With that admonition, Maka flips the camera, turns her volume all the way down so there's no chance her co-worker will be heard, then makes her way back into the bar. At the table she had once occupied now sit both Tsubaki and Ox, and given how packed the bar has become, Maka finds herself grateful for the invasion.

"Hey," she says with a small wave as she slides herself back into her seat, pushing aside her half finished drink. No way she touches it now that she left it on the table. Ox seems preoccupied with his phone, but Tsubaki greets her warmly.

"Oh, Maka, good! You're back! We were worried you'd miss the first song. It's a new one!" Maka smiles at the tall Japanese native, dressed as impeccably as always in a black catsuit, chain belt, and black leather jacket as she places her phone face down on the table in front of her. Maka likes the band stylist; they'd hit it off on their first meeting, and in the following week of spending time together during practices, Maka has come to consider her a friend. _With benefits_—the fact she gets to practice her rusty Japanese is an added perk to feeling like she's found a female ally in the sea of guys that make up the band.

"Sorry, work call," she responds, stifling the spike of guilt that goes with the half lie. Maka could tell the truth, but she really isn't ready for these two worlds to fully collide; it's why she keeps her calls to Kim confined to the hotel room she'd finally gotten after the first week, and only when Soul's not around. It's not often. As with the week they'd spent in his room at Wes's penthouse, he's nearly always around, and she has periodically marveled at how much she's absolutely fine with that.

Their conversation is cut short by the band taking the stage, lights further dimming in the already dimly lit bar at their entrance. The smoke that fills the place looks eerie under the haphazard stage lights, and Maka's eyes trail to the back left corner of the stage that the bass player generally occupies. His look is a bit less Emo than usual—still in mostly black, his black wig tonight is short and spiky and he wears some sort of adorned headband. Having forgone the habitual black trench, his arms are bare, the full sleeves of intricate tats crawling up his arms. Clearly, he's dressed to suit this particular crowd, and Maka has to admire Tsubaki's ability to read an audience. She also finds herself admiring how good his arms look, lightly muscled and crawling with ink, how good he looks, face impassive and mysterious under the glare of the lights, and gets a hint of why he's gained so many avid followers.

With the band making an appearance, both Ox and Tsubaki turn their attention to the stage, and Maka snatches up her phone to point it that way as well. She takes a sweep of the band with her camera before zooming in on "Soul Eater," and tries to ignore Kim's clearly mouthed_ oh my god_ and wild laughter visible in the corner of her screen as Black Star begins his garish into.

Dressed in a black tank with a neon yellow star emblazoned on the front and tight leather pants, electric blue hair spiked high, he looks about how he sounds. Maka keeps the camera focused on Soul, who at one point rolls his eyes at the lead singer. "Greetings, pleebs, I'm the great Black*Star and I am your god! Are you ready to worship at the altar of rock?" There's some cheering from the crowd, some of it high pitched shrieking. She notices a few fangirls have filled in one corner of the room. Most wear dark clothing, though they sport a wide array of hair colors ranging from black to the same powder pink as her friend on the phone. One even has a sign that reads: **You Can Eat My Soul. **_Gross_.

"I said," Blake repeats. "Are you ready to rock?!" An even louder stint of cheering later, much of it from that same corner, Blake screams, "We're the _Death Scythes!_" and the band starts playing.

By now, having attended several practices with Soul, Maka has become fairly well versed with their still relatively small catalogue of songs, but Tsubaki is right, she hasn't heard this one.

It's a rocker, not exactly odd for the band thus far, but as it continues, it's also clearly a love song. Well, a love lament, maybe, about a girl who is unattainable. They only have one other song about love, and that had been written at the urging of Blake, or so Tsubaki had informed her, as a gift for her. Soul writes all the main riffs, she'd also been informed by the quietly cheerful stylist, but the lyrics and concepts and the instrumental lines are generally a team effort; Maka can't help but wonder who had been the main force behind this song.

It strikes a chord with her, this lament, this need. Love denied. A heart closed, another heart broken. She doesn't know why it resonates with her, but it does, the rest of the world fading in the face of the music. Soul sings backing vocals and the emotion in his voice takes her to a place she rarely lets herself go.

The song ends and reality comes crashing back and Maka blinks at her screen, at Kim clearly saying something excitedly she can't hear, at Soul, with no backing vocals to sing, looking subdued at a shift into a more moderately tempoed song she's heard before about the weight of expectations being crushing and wanting to be free.

Pressing end call unceremoniously, she can't be surprised by the string of texts she's missed. They're from Jackie, but clearly Kim had commandeered her girlfriend's phone when she put two and two together and realized Maka had her volume off.

_OMG he's a scene kid_

_But a hot scene kid like damn_

_Wow they're good_

_You should quit this rat trap and head their security _

_Seriously Maka you better bring him here gotta make sure he's not gonna corrupt our little girl with his wicked rock ways_

The final text, sent after she'd ended the call, is one word:

_Unfair_

Well, Kim will get over it. And probably pester her non stop about calling when Soul can actually talk. Maka realizes now that her friends have seen "Soul Eater," she'll have to give them the full scoop about his stage identity, but figures it had been inevitable in any case if they're going to keep up this ruse after she returns to DC in a week. And she has every intention of keeping up this ruse; not only does she appreciate not dealing with the well meaning interference of others into her lack of romantic life, but she also enjoys talking to him and isn't really ready to cut off a friendship she's come to value so deeply.

Maka hopes he's still on the same page, though they haven't discussed it much, and refuses to think about what happens if he's not as she lets herself get caught up in their music once more.

* * *

They're back at her hotel room, which Soul normally appreciates, but not tonight. Her bag, which had been empty in the little closet 'till now, sits neatly backed against the wall, serving as a constant visual reminder. _Time's up; _Maka leaves in the morning, sometime between the hour of _kill me now_ and _fuck 'o clock,_ in what he has come to thinbk of as typical Maka fashion.

Soul wishes he had the courage to do more than just sit idly with her asleep against his shoulder as they watch Netflix stream on the hotel television he'd so helpfully hooked up to his tablet, wishes he thought she'd welcome such courage, but he doesn't and she wouldn't, he's nearly certain, so he sits and wishes and tries to memorize the little things. How she sounds when she sleeps, even breathing punctuated by the occasional soft snuffle. How her eyes scrunch with concentration when she's working out a particularly difficult problem. How that one little cowlick in her hair starts to stick up by the end of the day, shining gold in the lamplight. The sound of her laugh. He could write a whole song about that laugh, he thinks, then wants to punch himself for letting that gross, mushy thought enter his head. When the hell did he become _this guy,_ the one who moons over some girl or guy or whatever? He used to laugh at this guy, snark about this guy—he's definitly not supposed to_ be_ this guy, is supposed to be above all that romantic bullshit, sex and feelings and what the hell ever, but here he is.

Because Maka is—Maka _is_—Well, _Maka_.

Not that it matters what Maka is; this is _his_ hangup and he'll deal with it. She considers him a friend and that's enough because he's not an intrusive, overstepping jerk, so it _has to be._

The subject of his spiraling thoughts gets his full attention as she starts, lifting her head from where she'd blissfully rested it on his shoulder as she'd dozed lightly through the end of their_ Chopped Champions _marathon.

"Sorry," she mutters, face somewhat stricken, as if falling asleep and drooling on his shoulder were a capital crime. As if he actually minded.

He shrugs. "No big deal. But you missed that cocky, muscly white dude who thought only guys can really cook get his ass handed to him by the tiny Latina chef from Jersey."

"Aw, damn." Her grin, still a bit slow with lingering sleep, has his heart skipping a beat. "Please tell me Alex laid into him and took his personal esteem account to zero."

"With interest," he grins back her way, showing off his ridiculous teeth. With her, Soul can just be himself and it's—liberating, really.

"Alex is my fav," Maka says, the thought incongruously punctuated by a yawn. Then she's _really looking at him_, green eyes expectant and calculating, sleep shaken off entirely. He stops the show almost instinctually, that look grabbing his attention and holding it entirely. "So I was thinking…" she begins, and he laughs.

"You do that a lot."

"So I'm told," she says with a rueful smile. "Anyway. I'm leaving tomorrow morning." She pauses, and takes in a breath, her posture suddenly stiff, and a feeling of dread runs through him. So it's about this—_thing_—must be.

"More like the asscrack of dawn, but yeah."

Maka sticks out her tongue at this, stiffness subsiding just a bit, and continues, "We probably need to rework our ground rules if we're going to keep this up." She doesn't have to clarify what this is.

"Yeah, alright," he agrees. "I mean, at least you won't have to kiss me anymore, right?"

Going scarlet, she shrugs. "I mean, no, though when we visit each other, that'll still need to happen. And honestly, if we don't make it look good when Liz picks me up in the morning, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Oh, yeah, ok." He's nonchalant but it's a ruse. The thought of really kissing her sends a thrill through every bit of him he's having a hard time keeping at bay. Down, boy.

"And it's not like I hate the kissing part. Anyway." His brain now short circuited, Soul can't even process the last statement before she's barrelled right past it. "I'm thinking nightly calls. Maybe Facetime or Skype. And we should text, too. I mean, when Kim goes out on assignment, Jackie's phone blows up, so that's normal, I figure. And we want to look normal."

"Uh, yeah, of course." His hand digs at the back of his hair as he works to keep his emotions at bay, works not to show the warring feelings roiling within. Okay, so maybe he can't always be himself around her, because_ himself _has long since begun to feel too much. Hell, he's not even sure who himself is around her anymore; his head is spinning so hard Soul feels like an out of control top about to fall right off the end of the rickety table that is his life.

"I'm so glad you're on board with this, too!" Maka flashes him a wide smile that's doing absolutely nothing to calm his haywire feelings. "I mean, I know this started off as a pretty hairbrained plot and I've second guessed it, even, but we're friends now, right?" He manages a nod, and she continues, "And, I mean, you should know that our friendship is important to me. I feel like we make a pretty good team, so we can definitely make this work, and neither of us will have to deal with our friends' meddling for the foreseeable future. We get to keep in touch and keep people off our back. So win, win, right?"

The look she levels him is hopeful and Soul would never deny her anything she asks, he's pretty sure at this point, so he manages a smile and says, "Definitely." Her own return smile is so brilliant, her look so expectant, he harnesses it, channels it into genuine enthusiasm because the fact she wants to continue the friendship they've formed, that she clearly looks forward to the idea of talking with him from a distance—these things send a tiny thrill through him he can't deny.

_Their friendship is important to her._

"And uh, visits," he puts in. "I mean, I'll be on tour again starting next month. But we're gonna hit DC eventually, so we'll definitely be able to visit then."

"Perfect!"

Her enthusiasm continues to be infectious and he smiles back at her and hopes it's not too soft, too much, as he says, "It really is. All settled, then?"

"Yep!" Maka agrees, so Soul clicks the show back on and enjoys the feeling of her head back on his shoulder a few minutes later as she dozes off once more.


	5. Part 3: Conflict Resolution

In line at the grocery store, Maka eyes the tabloid rack warily, lips pursed slightly in distaste.

There's a picture of Soul, or "Soul Eater" really, head bowed down as he looks at his phone. The fact she's dating-not dating a real life rock star might amuse her if it weren't such a pain in the ass. They have to be careful now, and she hates it, and, in the face of this newest development, is it really worth it to keep up the ruse anyway?

Her eyes continue scanning the front page. Judging by the background of the first picture, she guesses a paparazzi in the audience had somehow managed to sneak in a camera and had used the telephoto lens to get a shot backstage. She should probably have a word with his security team, but that's not really the problem. And this really_ is_ a problem, she thinks, as her eyes scan the headline:

**_Soul Eater's mystery lover?_**

On the other half of the page, there's a picture of a girl talking to Soul in his full get up next to the craft table. Soul is clearly mid chew, what looks to be a cracker visible in one hand. Maka recognizes the girl—one of the models from the video they'd shot on location between shows last week. She's a cute redhead with the most plastic looking smile Maka has ever seen. Soul had complained about her incessently; apparently, she was exceptionally handsy and had been far too in his personal space, and he'd eventually told her to back the fuck off. The fact Maka's own invasions of his personal space when she was in Los Angeles all those months ago hadn't seemed to bother him in the slightest makes her feel warm. She quashes the feeling.

Yes, they definitely have a problem, she decides as she loads her small basket of groceries onto the belt. Or really, Soul has a problem, which means they both have a problem, since their completely fake relationship _is_ the problem.

As it turns out, the heretofore unobtrusive emo bassist becomes exponentially more interesting to media and fans alike when rumors start flying that he has a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. No one is really sure, actually—they just know he spends a lot of time texting between sets when he never had before, and that has to mean love, right?

For whatever reasons, as word of his presumed love life spread, this has meant a huge uptick in Soul's already rabid fanbase—mostly fangirls, some fanboys—and seemingly all of them cursing whoever has caught the elusive bass player's eye.

Inquiring minds want to know, and so, as the _Death Scythes' _star continues to rise, this also makes Soul an appealing target for the paparazzi, which means keeping his actual identity hushed is becoming increasingly difficult. Which, if this newest tabloid is anything to go by, also means that keeping her own identity hushed will be impossible if they don't put out this flame fast.

The analyst in her can only think of one way to quash the rumors, and she hates it, but Maka hates the thought of ruining both of their lives by being unmasked even more. And anyway, it's not like they're really together. They're just friends, and they can stay friends. She ignores that ever growing part of herself that aches for more; a relationship has never been on her agenda, and anyway, if Soul had even a sliver of interest that way, he definitely would have said something by now, right? Hell, she'd even told him about her terrible first and only relationship with Kid, and he'd even told her that he's never been in a relationship at all, that he'd been set up on a blind date that ended with Liz making out with her brother, had then tried going on a date on his own and was so uncomfortable when the girl leaned in and tried to suck his face off that he'd never tried again, had never wanted to. That had surprised her, actually, that even her limited experience is far greater than his. That he seems as completely disinterested in the whole sex and romance thing as she's always been.

Only—_only_—she _isn't_ disinterested, not anymore, and maybe that's the biggest reason to deal with this whole mess. Even if Soul were somehow, against all odds, interested, romance is fleeting, and she doesn't want to be left with the mess it always seems to leave behind.

This will definitely be for the best.

Mind made up, Maka grabs the tabloid to add to her purchases, pays for her groceries, and makes her way home.

* * *

They've only been talking for a few minutes as he waits in his hotel room for the limo to arrive, but Soul can tell something is off. Although Maka hasn't said anything, her tone is—guarded, almost, as she relays the events of her day, and her laugh stilted when, in response to her chiding him because he skipped his last meal, he flashes his teeth and says in the worst ever Eastern European accent, "But I vant to eat your soul!" Usually, jokes at the expense of his outrageous persona make her giggle, but this one falls flat and it has him unaccountably nervous. Yes, something is most definitely off.

When there's suddenly a piece of paper in front of his face a minute later, Soul tries to focus on what she's shoved onto the screen, obscuring his view of her, and not on how annoyed he is that he can no longer see her face.

It's a tabloid, and he's on the cover in side by side images taken last week while he was in costume. In the second picture, that annoying chick from the video who had cornered him is trying to get his attention again. In both, he's fully dressed out, no trace of white hair or red eyes. They haven't figured out that Soul Eater is also Soul Evans, not yet, but if they do—and with the attention he's been getting lately, he's convinced someone finally will—his life is going to go to complete shit without so much as a courtesy flush.

As if reading his mind, Maka echoes his thoughts:

"They're going to flush you out, and soon. People love a good romance even more than they love a good mystery, and you're giving them the total package."

He snorts and rolls his eyes, always a mistake in these contacts, and tries not to over-blink through the aftermath as the tabloid is once again replaced by visage of his fake girlfriend.

They're on Skype again, video chatting in the wee hours. Well, for Maka. For him, it's actually 8 AM in Brussels, where they're still stuck on the flash European tour the label had cooked up that is, to most of his bandmates' surprise and excitement, actually selling out every venue. For his part, Soul is just as surprised, but far less excited at the prospect of even more time in crowds.

Realizing by her continued silence that Maka must expect a real answer, Soul shrugs. "They'll get bored and move on to someone more exciting, trust me. They always do."

It's the truth. Back before the paparazzi had realized that Soul Evans isn't really worth their time to hound, back when he was a teen, they had occasionally bothered him, trying to get a scoop on the anti-social youngest Evans son. It stopped when they realized that Wes was by far the more interesting offspring, and he's almost never been bothered since.

Well, he's almost never been bothered as Soul Evans. _Soul Eater_ is currently getting bothered plenty. But the point is, Soul Eater isn't at bottom any more exciting than Soul Evans, so they should lose interest eventually. Hopefully.

The extended silence that follows is rankling on his last nerve, and Soul is about to say more, to try to erase the crease of concentration between Maka's brows, the growing frown, when she blurts, "We should break up." Her eyes widen at this, mirroring his own, as if she hadn't really meant to say it. Or maybe he just hopes she hadn't really meant to say it, because the thought is making his stomach twist.

"That's—" he pauses, swallows. "I mean, we _really_ don't have to. It's been working, this thing, hasn't it?"

It has, he_ knows_ it has. No one says shit about his lack of love life anymore, and talking to Maka is the highlight of every day. This latest bit of bullshit is just a minor wrench. Soul is sure they can make this work—_he really wants to make this work. _

On the screen he holds, her frown deepens and he's sure he's going to be sick.

"If we 'break up' and tell our friends, and you announce it and show it when we stop talking, they'll stop hounding you. You know Blake will do something stupid soon that'll take the attention off you."

"I—guess, yeah." Soul hates the words, hates the whole idea, wants to argue, but he can tell by the set of her brow, the firmness of her mouth, that she's made up her mind. Maka is a pragmatist, and in cost-benefit terms, this charade has outlived its usefulness, he realizes that. He's always known they'd have to end this eventually, he'd just had hoped—he doesn't even know what he had hoped, just knows he isn't ready yet.

He also knows that when to end their charade isn't his choice alone, and now that it's been made, Soul needs time to clear his head, to put himself together before trying to talk to her. So far, he's still managing to maintain his habitual blank facade his friends so lovingly refer to as his perpetual resting bitch face, but he can feel it about to crack and refuses to let her see, refuses to make her feel guilty for doing what she thinks is best for both of them. "I—gotta go. Can I call you after the interview, work out the details?"

"I don't think we need to. We just—stop. You tell your friends, I'll tell mine. Go ahead and admit you had a girlfriend if they ask you today and that it didn't work out, whatever. Make it a non story." Her voice is small and quiet and she says this, but firm, unwavering, and he's sure he imagines the pain in her eyes, projecting his own feelings onto her.

"Yeah, okay," he says, swallowing down his protest.

"We can still stay in touch just—not so much, okay?" The resolve in her voice even as she offers this small bone hurts.

He wants to keep talking, keep her on the line, try to make her see that this isn't necessary, but he doesn't. He can't. It _hurts,_ and he feels himself cracking, so he says quickly, voice clipped, "Yeah, sure, cool. Gotta go. Guess this is goodbye."

"Yeah, I guess it is. Goodbye, Soul. It was—really fun." Her sincerity can't even touch the pit of despair that is beginning to claim him. He needs time to just—grieve, he supposes.

"Yeah, I—goodbye." His face is blank as he closes the ap and she vanishes from his tablet. And just like that, as Soul goes from fake dating to single once more, his mask shatters and he lets himself cry for the first time in over a year, contacts be damned.

* * *

It hurts, she can't deny that much. Since their last Skype chat a month ago, Maka has repeatedly wondered why ending something fake seemingly hurts for real, but refuses to let the question settle again as she grabs her research file and throws herself back into work.

Really, it doesn't matter why, and it's not like she can change it, not like it would even be advisable to change it, so dwelling on it is a waste of time and effort. Soul had accepted it readily enough, and she's sure the hurt she remembers in his eyes is a reflection of her own feelings, not his. And anyway, they're still friends; they still talk, a text here, a phone call there. Sure, it's weird and stilted and nothing like the warm rapport they'd built before she'd blown it all to smithereens, and sure, it had only been one awkward call and they haven't texted in well over a week, but it had been necessary, damnit, and she's convinced they'll reach some sort of new normal eventually. It can't hurt forever, right, ending their little thing that hadn't even been a thing?

Maka just wishes he didn't feel so distant now. She _misses_ him, misses talking to him daily, misses seeing his face on her screen, misses even more that time they had spent together in LA, and she hates it.

Staring at the report in front of her, she tries to will away the stupid thoughts that plague her, the wishes she refuses to put into words and just _do her damn job already,_ but the words on the page blur and squiggle as she feels her eyes mist, so she slams a fist on the desk and decides she must need coffee. It had been a late night as she'd sat in on a stakeout apprehension with the DCPD to round out some of the field research she'd begun in LA. Clearly, the exhaustion is getting to her.

The throat clearing behind her startles Maka from her reverie and she swivels her chair to see that Kim is standing in the doorway to her office, looking far more serious than the analyst is used to seeing her. The fact that she hadn't even heard the other woman approach, had been too wrapped up in her own emotional ridiculousness, irritates her. She really needs to move past these stupid, misplaced feelings so she can get back to her life.

"So, I'm not sure what exactly your desk did to you, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure it can't be worth furniture abuse."

Biting back the embarrassed smile that threatens, Maka coughs lightly instead, leveling a neutral stare at her friend. "Late night. I need coffee."

Getting up from her chair, intending to brew herself a subpar cup in the office Keurig, Maka finds herself held up at the doorway as she tries to brush past Kim, one well manicured hand gripping her shoulder. "Clearly," Kim says. "Let's go get some, then. Azusa is out and no one else gives a shit."

Torn between the prospect of good coffee and her dread at finally being confronted by Kim, Maka allows herself to be steered by her friend out of the office and into the elevator. There's a fantastic coffee shop down the block from the building that houses the DC Branch Office, and all of Maka's mounting protest is soon rendered moot by Kim's firm, guiding hand, and the heavenly smell of well roasted Arabica. Deathbucks coffee awaits.

Five minutes later, a cup of strong black coffee sitting warm between her palms and trickling even more warmly down her throat, Maka watches Kim watching her from across the table, one long, hot pink nail tapping her chin thoughtfully, calculating blue-green eyes standing out starkly against hot pink eyeliner, the same hot pink as her nails and her latest hair color. Sometimes, Maka is slightly jealous of how much leeway Kim gets in her day to day appearance as their resident occult expert. Others, like now, she just wonders how Kim can stand all the stares she constantly gets by looking like she strolled straight out of a rave.

"So, you broke up with him, right?" Kim hasn't broached the subject since Maka confirmed their break up three weeks ago, but that doesn't mean she was never going to, and Maka still doesn't feel ready for it.

"Right," she agrees with a sigh.

"Because you were afraid the relationship would interfere with work and wasn't going anywhere because of the distance."

"Exactly." Frowning down at the liquid in the cup to avoid that piercing gaze, Maka continues, "and anyway, the whole FBI agent with a rock star thing was never going to work out. Breaking it off was the right thing to do."

"Sure, that's why you're punching innocent desks a month later."

Snapping her eyes up to meet her friend's half amused stare, Maka grits out, "I told you it was a late night."

"I'm sure it was," Kim agrees airily. "I might even believe that's why you're now perpetrating furniture abuse if you hadn't been moping since it happened."

"Have not."

"Don't pout. You definitely have. And_, _I saw an interview with your wayward bass player a few nights ago and he was moping, too."

"He always looks that way." Cutting this speculation off at the knees seems best.

"And he barely spoke."

"Also normal, what else you got?"

"_And_ he said he missed you." The triumphant smile Kim flashes her way is really too much.

"Sure he did," Maka sighs, refusing to take the bait. "I doubt he's ever spoken more than three words together in an interview. Blake does all the talking."

"What about the interview where he announced the break up?"

It's Maka's turn to smile, but it's forced, and any triumph hollow. "They asked if he was seeing anyone, and he just said, 'We broke up.' I know you watched it, since you asked me about it the next day."

"And you told me you broke up with him."

"Because I did." She shrugs. "And I told you why, and moved on with my life, so why are we talking about this now?" Maka doesn't even try to mask her growing irritation.

"Becaaaaause," Kim draws out the middle vowel, "you're moping, and he said he missed you, like I said."

The occult specialist starts fiddling with her phone, and Maka huffs, "Riiiii—"

The ending consonant dies on her lips, though, as the phone is shoved under her nose. It's Soul, in an unheard of solo interview, his face as impassive as ever, but he's actually _talking_.

"And she broke up with you, right?" The host says. It's the same little British guy who had hosted the one television appearance she had attended.

"That's right." Soul shifts uncomfortably in the over plush chair, his leather pants creaking audibly.

"So, that means you're back on the market!"

There are cheers and whistles from the crowd, but Soul's face remains impassive, pupiless black eyes still leveled boredly at the host, face still partially obscured by his dark wig.

"I suppose," he replies with palpable disinterest.

"Any lucky person caught your eye then?" The little host looks almost like a shark scenting blood but Soul shrugs.

"Nah, not interested."

"No—but—_why ever not?_" the man manages to fumble out, clearly flabbergasted by this response.

Another shrug, and then, "I miss her."

There's a bustle of mixed, confused noises from the crowd and the little host turns to the camera and says with a forced smile, "You heard it here first, Ladies and Gentlemen. He misses his ex. Thank you, Soul Eater. Up next, the co-star of _Making Bad_ will give us the real scoop on what it's like to work with a legend!"

Kim snatches her phone away with a self-congratulatory, "_told you,_" but Maka is far too stunned to respond. This time, she definitely isn't imagining the hurt in his eyes, so well hidden to most behind dark contacts and a stoic facade.

No, she hadn't imagined it at all. Maka just wishes she knew what it meant and, more importantly, how the hell to fix it, because actually seeing his face again, seeing that maybe this whole mess has hurt him, too, she still has no idea what to do.

* * *

In the end, it's Tsubaki who finally gets the truth from him.

Had Soul been home, it might have been Wes who broke down his walls enough to scale them, or maybe, without the constant distraction of being on tour, Star would have pestered him enough for him to blurt out his story, but in the end, it really doesn't take much. After over a month of living in the emotional swamp of his own design, the dam is pretty well ready to burst, and the contents come spilling out of his head through his mouth with very little prompting.

They're sitting in the tour bus when it happens.

The rest of the band is in the venue they're now parked behind seeing to the sound check, but he'd asked to be excused to work on the song he's writing, and Tsubaki had been busy with her own tasks, so they'd been left behind. He's on one of the little couches picking idly at his favorite bass, still trying to work out the song that's been trying to force its way out since even before Maka ended their ruse, when Tsubaki, seated across from him on the opposite couch, suddenly closes her laptop with a click and clears her throat.

Soul stills his fingers on the bass and looks up to meet her expectant gaze, indigo-blue eyes shining with sympathy. "I've been meaning to ask—" she begins, but leaves a pause long enough for him to cut her short. He doesn't. "—Soul, are you okay?"

A simple question, really, and he could just speak the lie, say he's fine, thanks for asking, but the understanding in her eyes, the soothing calm of her voice, the fact he's bottled this up for over a month—

"No," he admits. "I'm not."

Tsubaki nods. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He doesn't. He really, _really_ doesn't. But he _needs_ to talk about it, maybe, so he nods back and the words just come—

After a month—after months—Soul finally tells the truth, all of it, right from the beginning.

About how a joke Maka had made during their first day together had led them to pretend to date, because both of them were heartily sick of well meaning interference into their non-existant love lives, about how Maka had called it off when the tabloids started to speculate he was romantically involved, and about how much that had hurt and still fucking hurts because, for him, somewhere along the way, fake feelings had becomd achingly real, and how he still misses her like hell and needs her like air, but she isn't into him and he isn't about to impose his messy, gross, bullshit feelings on her.

Sitting calmly across from him, Tsubaki listens without interrupting, and when he's finally done leaking the contents of his heart, she purses his lips and says, "But are you sure?"

"Sure about—being in love with her?" he supplies, not at all certain of what she's asking, but Tsubaki shakes her head.

"No, it's very clear you have strong feelings for Maka." She adjusts her hands in her lap as she speaks, a clear sign to anyone who knows her well that she's choosing her words carefully. "What I mean is, are you certain that her feelings don't match yours?"

Before he can even attempt an answer, a different, all too familiar voice responds for him. "Oh yeah, Mad Maks definitely has it bad for my broseph here."

Head flying into his hands in disbelief and mortification, Soul groans loudly. He has no idea when and how Star had ended up standing a bare two feet away. Asshole can be a fucking ninja when the mood strikes, and of course it had struck today, _now, _of all times.

"No, she doesn't," he finally says from behind his hands. "Now leave me the fuck alone so I can—"

"Dude—_duuuude_—she _does_. I promise she does. Trust. Like, I wouldn't have thought it was possible, let alone possible with a mopey asshole like you, no offense, but shit, I promise, this ain't no one way gross pining."

Another groan is all he can manage. Maybe if Soul stays like this long enough, Star will get bored and let him die in peace.

There's shifting, a dip next to him, and a hand on his shoulder, warm through his t-shirt. He peeks to the side through his fingers to see Tsubaki looking at him sympathetically. "Maybe he's right."

Surprised out of hiding, because it's _Tsubaki_ saying it, Soul lowers his hands to take his long forgotten bass off his lap and place it to one side, then looks at her. She is as placid as ever, the eye of the storm that constantly surrounds her as the band stylist and Star's girlfriend. They'd met just after college at some martial arts convention and had been inseparable ever since. How and why they work, why she puts up with Blake's bullshit, Soul will never understand, but he's glad for it, glad for her skills as a stylist, sure, and her ability to apply his eyeliner so flawlessly, but glad most of all for her calming influence. Still, though he's known her for several years now, and as much as he's come to value both her judgement and her friendship, in this, he simply can't trust her.

"You're wrong," he finally says, and his voice is quiet but firm.

"Naaaaah!"

Of course it's Star who answers, plopping audibly down on the couch across from him. Soul nearly hides himself in his hands again, but before he gets to it, Blake continues like the merciless god he claims to be.

"Look, I know you're always a mopey pleeb who has like zero sense of self worth, blah blah blah, but seriously, once Maka broke up with you, you got, like, I don't know—a hundred times as mopey, and man, I couldn't fucking take that shit. So first, I borrowed your phone—"

"That was _you_?" Soul growls, because his goddamn phone had been missing for a whole day two weeks ago and he had been paranoid some rabid fan had somehow managed to lift it off him.

"Duh," Star says with a decided roll of his bright green eyes. "So anyway, it takes me a bit to figure out the passcode which—seriously bro, your birthday? Could you be any more basic?—and then I start scrolling through your texts with her for clues, right? When what to my wondering eyes should appear but your whole lame fucking fake dating plot you kept up half the damn year. And now I'm even more confused.'Cause if the whole thing was fake, why the fuck are you wallowing like a fucking matryr? So clearly, I gotta dig deeper, you feel?"

When Soul says nothing, face finally molded into a mask of indifference by sheer force of will, Star just keeps going.

"So, I call Liz, 'cause I figure she's got the goods on both of you, only she's got no fucking clue about your whole little dating scheme, and at first she's just kinda pissed, but when she finally calms down, she says she's got a source and just fucking hangs up on her god like the blasphemous heathen she is."

"So you told Liz, which means Wes knows, fucking perfect." Soul is ready to admit defeat yet again, ready to roll over and die, or maybe, ready to bolt if he's honest, but he just manages to keep himself in place and impassive as Star keeps going.

"Not like you left me much choice, dude. You're like a stone. A sad, mopey, emotionally constipated little nugget—"

"Black*Star," Tsubaki chides, and Star actually pauses and offers her a soft smile, the type Soul wouldn't have guessed the other man was even capable of before she entered the picture.

"Yeah, okay, got it," he sighs. "I'll spare Eater's poor mushy feelings and shit. So." He turns his attention back to Soul. "Eventually, Liz calls back and she's got the fucking scoop from one of Maka's friends out in DC, she says, and holy fuck, Maka, Mad fucking Maks herself, has been mooning like a sick fucking puppy for, like, weeks. And _dude_, I know you know Maks, even have all the feels for her and shiz, and Maks doesn't do the whole mopey thing. Like, ever. So like I said, she's got it _bad_, even her friend said she's got it bad, so just _man the fuck up _already. We'll be in DC in two weeks, so you can spill all your gross feels all over her, she can spill hers back, and you two can start fucking like rabbits just like you shoulda been doin' like forever ago, because as gross as it might be to think about you two bumping uglies, it's way more gross dealing with you bein' an emo shit all the time, or, well, more of an emo shit than you usually are—" Tsubaki clears her throat and he rolls his eyes and continues. "So seriously—_seriously_—for my sake, if not your own, go and fucking get it."

Staring down his unflappable friend is no easy task, but Soul manages it, glaring silently his way until Blake shrugs and bounds away with a, "Whatever, mope then, later Brodyssious," crashing out of the bus with far less care than he'd snuck into it.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Soul then swivels his gaze to Tsubaki, who looks as unshakeable as ever herself. He swallows, considering his next words carefully. He has no idea what friend Liz might know in DC, who she could have talked to who would be in the know—any of his own experience with Maka's DC friends had been brief and limited to video call intrusions. Both wanting to believe and terrified to believe, to be offered a sliver of hope only to have it slice him in two, Soul finally asks, "Do you think he's right?"

"I can't be sure," Tsubaki says after a long, thoughtful pause. "I don't know Maka's friend and I don't know what she saw. But from my own experience? From getting to know Maka and seeing how she looked at you and talked about you? Either she's in the wrong profession and the best actor I've ever seen, or she cares for you."

"She does," Soul responds with a sigh. "We're friends. Or we were, before it all went to hell."

"No, that's not what I meant." Tsubaki shakes head, looking thoughtful again. "I mean, _yes_, I think she cares for you that way, too, but the way she looked at you—even talked about you—it wasn't the way she talked about her other friends. She _cares _for you."

Swallowing back a lump at the thought of Maka actually having real feelings for him, of Maka hurting the way he hurts because of all of this, he shakes his head back at her. "Even if she does, it doesn't matter. She ended it, and we haven't even texted in weeks. She doesn't want anything to do with me."

"If that's true, if even your friendship is strained, can it hurt to tell her the truth?"

Soul shakes his head again. "Thanks for trying," he says finally. "I appreciate it."

Smiling back, there's pity in Tsubaki's eyes as she says, "Any time," and gets up to leave the bus.

Finally alone, for as much as Soul had denied it, the thought the stylist leaves him with haunts him as he once again takes up his bass and continues to work out the song he's been writing for Maka since the day she left LA.

Can it hurt? _Can it?_ It _already_ hurts. If Maka feels nothing as he thinks she must, well, his sappy confession would give her a free pass to blow him off for good with a clear conscience. And if not? If not—he doesn't dare to think of it, of her feeling even a shadow for him of what he's come to feel for her.

In the end, Soul decides, they both probably need closure—so in a few weeks, when the band makes their way to Death City, maybe, if he can actually work up the nerve, he'll tell Maka the truth, too.

* * *

As always, Assistant Director Azusa's stare is completely unnerving. It doesn't help that her desk and chair are massive and intimidating and that Maka herself sits in a small, uncomfortable wooden chair across from all that majesty.

She has been called into her boss's office, why Maka has no clue, and only hopes she's not about to get fired. She knows she's slipping, that her work isn't half as thorough as it used to be. The thought makes her angry and sad all at once, and she struggles to keep her face even as she looks back at her boss in silence, waiting for the other woman to make the first move, to say something, _anything_ after telling her to have a seat.

It feels like an eternity has passed, though in reality it's likely only a handful of seconds, before the AD finally deigns to speak.

"Thank you for coming," AD Azusa says in the same clipped tone that is her norm. "I have news."

"News?" Maka blinks, envying her boss's unflappable demeanor; in her several years working under her, she has never seen the woman lose her cool.

"Yes," she responds. "News. I got a call from the LA office. It seems the LAPD were so impressed with your work, they're requesting you as a liaison and asking that you continue developing the apprehension techniques and share them with other departments in the area."

"I—" Maka works to channel just a sliver of the ice that runs through Azusa's veins. "What did you tell them?"

Glancing down briefly as if to check the notes in front of her, Azusa levels her stare back at her subordinate. "I told them that it was your decision, that you were doing important work here, but that I could see the value in moving your research to a larger area."

"Ah," she replies, because she really has no idea what to say, doesn't even know what to think. Does she want to take this job, this promotion, to leave behind the life she's built the past several years, the town she grew up in? To leave her her job, her friends, her everything?

"I'll give you a few days to think about it, of course, but I mean it. This is your decision, Agent Albarn."

"I understand," Maka replies, and she does. It's a big change, but it would be also be a big step up in her career and in her work. She could make such a difference out there, and she'd enjoyed her time working with the LAPD. This is _huge_. Sure, she'd be leaving some things behind, leaving friends behind, but her papa and Blair had moved to Vegas last year, so she'd be closer to them, and she'd also get the chance to spend time with other friends, like Liz. Like—

"I don't need to think," she says after a short pause, and for maybe the only time ever, Azusa looks surprised. "I'll take the job."

The other woman, her soon to be former boss, offers her a rare smile. "I'll make the call, then. Congratulations."

"Thanks." Maka smiles back, and it feels as though a cloud has been lifted. She feels practically giddy, though she won't consider why, refuses to not think of anything but the job, not yet.

Even still, for as much as Maka was born and raised in Death City, for as much as she'd gone to school here and works here, the thought of going back to Los Angeles feels like she's finally going home.

* * *

_She didn't come. _

Walking back onto the stage for a second encore, Soul scans the audience again for the umpteenth time, scans the center of the front row where she should be, only she isn't.

He'd texted her that he'd be in town. He'd also texted instructions to pick up her tickets, four of them just in case she wanted to bring friends. He'd even dared to text her that he'd love to see her.

When she hadn't replied, Soul had still stupidly hoped she might just show up and surprise him, but of course, she hadn't.

_She didn't come._

Maka doesn't _want_ to come, hadn't responded, won't even see him.

Maybe she hates him.

Star had been wrong. Tsubaki had been wrong. Whatever idiot friend had blabbered to Liz had been most wrong of all.

_Fuck everything. _

Taking in a deep breath, Soul works to keep his hands from shaking, works to keep his eyes from tearing, works to keep his so-called resting bitch face as his world falls apart.

If she didn't come, if she wouldn't even stoop to be his friend, then he would have to move on, to get over himself and live his damn life again, already.

Soul only wishes he remembered how.

* * *

Maka can't believe she's actually here, now, sitting between Liz and Wes and sweating profusely in the hot California night.

She shouldn't have come.

After ignoring his texts that he'd be in DC because she'd just moved to LA a few days before and had no idea how to respond, Maka had finally shown up uninvited on Liz's doorstep several days later. She hadn't even told her long time friend that she was in LA again, let alone that she had moved here, but as she trembled in the entryway of the penthouse of her one time roommate, as she was pulled into her arms then guided to the couch and offered a stiff drink, Maka finally told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Some of it, she hadn't even admitted to herself yet.

And then, Liz had told her she has a plan.

Why did Maka let herself get talked into this?

Surely he hates her, if not _before_, then certainly _now_, after she's completely ghosted him for weeks.

_She shouldn't have come. _

Only, she _had, _she's here, and it's too late to change her mind, sandwiched as she is between Liz and her boyfriend, at the head of a massive sea of people all waiting to worship at the altar of the infamous _Death Scythes._

As if he'll notice her amidst such a crowd. As if he'd care if he did after, well, _everything_.

It doesn't matter how many times Liz insists he's been a mess since they called it off, doesn't matter that Wes, who Liz had seen fit to tell everything, has done the same, because Maka had blown up the bridge back to him when she'd ignored his texts, she's sure of it.

Being here is a waste of both of their time, not to mention how much it bloody _hurts_.

Maka supposes she's earned it, this pain, by being blind, to her own feelings, but maybe, just maybe, to his, too. Part of her hopes they're wrong or lying, that he's been fine this whole time, that she was just a blip on his radar, that he doesn't have feelings for her. Most of her thinks that's probably the truth.

But part of her, the deepest, most secret part, hopes that Soul had cared for her and still does, and most of all, that her being here won't bring him pain, too.

* * *

_Fucking Wes. _

Soul may as well be trailing storm clouds as he practically stomps back onto the stage for their second encore, because his egotistical, hypersensitive, asshole of an older brother has just texted him that he brought Liz, they're front and center, and he's hurt that his little brother hasn't even so much as glanced their way.

Of _course_ he hasn't glanced their way—hasn't paid attention to the audience at all—he's too busy trying to keep his shit together, the final sting of the last concert, the last rejection, still painfully raw.

Now, on top of said pain, Soul feels stupidly guilty and absolutely livid all at once.

_Stupid fucking idiot Wes. _

Holding the anger tightly, basking in its warmth because it's far better than the pain beneath, Soul scans the crowd as he waits for Star to finish monologuing.

Focusing on the front center, his eyes slide on Wes, then Maka, then Liz.

Freeze. Rewind.

Wes. Then _Maka_. Then Liz.

He blinks and rubs his eyes, convinced he's hallucinating. Star keeps blathering on and he wants to kick him.

Look again. Wes, check. Liz, check.

Maka—_check_.

Because it _is_ Maka, standing between his brother and his girlfriend, right smack in the center of the front row of the Hollywood Bowl. She seems focused on Black*Star at first, but then her head moves his way and he thinks she must be looking at him, though it's difficult to tell for sure between the distance and the lighting.

_Fucking goddamn Wes. _

The words are both blessing and curse because Soul finally has the chance he'd wanted to take last week, but he's also terrified. He has no idea why or how she's here, only that Wes is somehow involved, and she hasn't so much as texted him in weeks, not even to tell him she couldn't make it to the concert. What good could possibly come of this? What outcome other than to have her reject him to his face and open the wounds afresh?

At the same time, she's here, she's come, and that has to mean something, right?

Maybe she doesn't share his feelings, but she wouldn't come here just to reject him—Maka would never be so cruel.

Then… _why? _

Only one way to find out, he supposes.

Playing through the rest of their set robotically after Star has finally said his damn piece, Soul's mind is whirling. Then they reach the end of the second to last song and as he plays the final few notes, he approaches Black*Star on the stage amidst thunderous applause.

Stepping back from the mic, Star raises eyebrows his way.

"Wanna play the new song," he answers the unspoken question.

That questioning look morphs quickly into a shit eating grin. "So she's here?"

"Fuck you—now back the fuck off," Soul growls, his nerves past their breaking point.

"Yes, sir," the lead singer quips with a smart salute before trading Soul's bass for his own acoustic-electric guitar and walking backwards to the side of the stage. "Don't fuck it up, peon,"

But Soul isn't listening anymore, not really. His eyes are on Maka alone as he approaches the mic, silhouetted outside the glare of the stage lights, barely visible yet still radiant all the same. Star must have made their intentions known to the stage techs, because the place goes dark but for a single spotlight all on him.

It's his worst nightmare. It's his only chance.

Time to play their song.

* * *

He's looking straight at her, though she can't imagine he can see her well amidst the glare of the single spotlight.

Soul Eater never speaks, never sings anything but backup, certainly never takes center stage, but there he is, eyes focused on where she stands from a few feet ahead and above her, guitar in hand, clearing his throat nervously.

"So," he says, and the crowd hushes in anticipation, eager to discover just what this latest development means. "This isn't normally my thing—sort of leave the whole frontman thing to Star—"

Star bellows out, "Damn straight!" to riotous cheers. A few moments later, as the bassist waits patiently, the crowd hushes again to a dull murmur of anticipation and Soul continues.

"Anyway, I wrote a song. Meant to play it at our last concert, but it wasn't the right time." Maka's heart skips at that, her emotions raw and overwhelming. Their last concert had been in Death City. The same concert he'd texted her about. The same texts she never responded to. The same concert she failed to attend without so much as a sorry.

Whatever he's doing, if it's for her, she surely doesn't deserve it.

"So, Mad Max." The old nickname pulls her from her downward spiral, startles her back to reality, and the fact he's smiling down at her, softly, nervously, she can't help it, she smiles back as he finishes, "this one's for you."

It's soft at first as he plays alone. His voice is low and strong.

The words are aching, haunting. A half life, one without love. A life of failed expectations and missed connections.

As the music quickens, swells, Soul begins to sing of a light, one he'd thought must be false but was real after all. One he stupidly let drift away. Other instruments begin to join in from the shadows beyond the spotlight as the music shifts into pain and regret. This is his song, his life and his pain, writ large on his face and in his voice, in the words he sings and in the music itself.

This song is him, his soul, bared for all to see, bared for her most of all.

For him to do this—maybe Liz and Wes _had_ been telling the truth, for nothing else makes any sense.

This song is him, then, but it's her, too, it's _them_, and all she can see is the pain he feels, the pain she's caused him.

The music shifts again. The light has returned, shining in the distance. It isn't lost after all, not yet, and he hopes it's come back to shine for him once more, to allow him to bask in its glow for just a little while longer.

Maka swipes away tears as the song ends.

"I hope you understand," Soul says, eyes still fixed on her as they have been since the song began. "I hope it's enough."

The crowd cheers wildly as he walks off stage, as they all do.

The concert is over, but what now?

Soul had sung for her and only for her amidst a crowd of thousands.

This isn't only friendship. Not for him. Not for her.

Clutching the laminated VIP pass around her neck tightly, she ignores Liz's shout of her name behind her as she weaves her way through the crowd.

Soul had just sang her his heart—it's time for Maka to return the favor.

* * *

He's trying not to pace, really he is, as he stands alone in his dressing room.

Not wanting to wear a groove in the floor, Soul turns back to the large mirror. Contacts are out, makeup quickly scrubbed off, wig discarded to the dressing table. He's still in the the faded red tee Tsubaki had selected for him, along with ripped back jeans, but he'd shrugged off the leather jacket somewhere in the middle of their second set, the heat of an outdoor show under the lights unbearable.

Red stone earrings, his favorite black stone necklace, white hair, red eyes—it's clearly Soul in the mirror, not Soul Eater. Good enough. He wants to be himself for this.

Whatever _this_ is. Maybe there is no this. He hadn't been able to see her well in the lights. Maybe she'd run screaming.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and hope swells. Maybe—

Fishing it out, hope crashes. It's from Wes. He swipes up to see whatever inane thing his brother has to say and his heart freezes in his chest. Two words:

_She's coming. _

In his mind and in his heart, there is only one _she_, has been since she walked off a plane and into his life all those months ago.

There's a knock at the door, soft, then another. The third knock is more firm, and as his heart restarts, pounding in his chest like a bass drum, he turns to towards the door and manages to croak out—

"It's open."

At the last second, he closes his eyes, too afraid to see Star crashing in, though Star never knocks—too afraid to see anyone but the one person he so desperately wants it to be.

He hears the door open then click shut, and finally opens his eyes as soft, hesitant footsteps approach.

Ashen hair, shining gold under fluorescent. A faded black _Death Scythes_ tee—check that—_his _faded black _Death Scythes_ tee from long before they hit it big, the one she'd commandeered during her time in LA and never returned, oversized and tied at the navel. Green, green eyes wide with emotion.

_Maka_.

"You're here," he breathes out in awe, words eluding him.

There's no answer, only a broken smile as she launches herself forward into his arms, and for several moments, they just hold each other. It's just a hug, but she's warm against him and he's missed her so damn much. Nothing else matters. She'd come, she'd heard and she'd understood and she's holding him and _nothing else matters_. He feels wetness against his shirt, and then she's looking up, green eyes bright with moisture.

"I'm here," Maka says softly, carefully.

Soul wants to kiss her and wonders if it's okay, wonders if he can, wonders if she'll let him.

From the way she looks up at him, face shining with expectant emotion, the way she's begun to tilt her face towards him, he's pretty sure she'll let him, pretty sure she'll make the move herself if he doesn't, so he begins to move his face down, to meet her half way, her eyes in this moment his whole world when he hears the soft sound of the door opening. There's a gasp that has them springing apart, turning towards the door. It's a woman with flaming red hair, intricately plaited around her head, and startling blue eyes, a phone pointed where they had been standing.

"Gotcha!" she says with a devious smirk, then turns on her heel and runs.

Reeling, emotions swinging from awe to want to fury in the span of seconds, Soul is about to chase her when he feels a firm hand on his forearm stopping him.

"Don't bother," Maka says with a sigh as he meets her gaze again. "She'll have set it up to send the moment it was taken." Her tone is firm, no nonsense, her face hardened with determination. He's rarely seen her, hadn't had much chance in their time together, but this is Agent Albarn getting down to business. "It's already too late, but it's still better if we don't leave together. You need to get out of here. I'll find Liz and Wes and meet you at the penthouse." But her game face melts as quickly as it had come and suddenly, she just looks cautious. "I mean—if that's okay?"

"Yeah, definitely more than okay," he manages, sulking panic not set in just yet, not with her still with him, because his wig is off and his contacts are out but he's still dressed in the clothes he'd worn for the show—his cover is blown and Maka is going to be unmasked, too, just when she's finally here, and it's all about to go to shit.

His mounting panic must show because she steps closer again, searching his eyes.

"It's going to be alright," Maka says softly, leaning up to give him the slightest peck on the mouth, and just in that moment, he actually believes her. "Now _go_! I'll be right behind you!"

A swallow, a nod, then Soul is sprinting out the door, the lingering feel of her lips on his own flooding him with a warmth that manages to keep the panic at bay, at least for now.

* * *

As the elevator doors slide open to reveal the oversized, ornate front door to Wes's penthouse, Maka has no idea what she'll find behind it.

Is he here yet? Does she want him to be?

Part of her, the analytical part, thinks she needs a few minutes to gather her thoughts alone, to try to work through the events of the last hour, her own dizzying swirl of emotions, to parse out what it all means.

The other part just wants to kiss him again.

Hesitant, she approaches the oversized, ornate entry door slowly. She could text him, check her phone to see if he's texted her, but she would rather just _see him_ as much as she fears to see him.

He—he has feelings for her, she's sure he does. Soul had sung for her, held her, _kissed her back_. But there had been no time for _words_, and they've avoided those for long enough.

Letting out a long breath, Maka reaches to pass the key card Wes had pressed into her hand as he dropped her off in front of the reader, then pushes open the door.

The place looks just the same as it had when she left with Liz and Wes earlier, as it had when she'd stayed here all those months ago, all postmodern opulence, except—

Her eyes meet his, standing near the couch across the room. Soul's been pacing again, she guesses, based on the way he's facing, the way he turns towards her and breathes her name, and it's like gravity, the anticipation, the need. Maka had meant there to be words first, meant for them to talk, but instead there are only feet rushing to meet, arms rushing to hold, lips crashing together, tongues dancing in tandem, and oh _god_, yes, this is much different from that kiss in college, not gross, just _warm_ and _him_ and she wants to melt, wants to kiss him forever, but they need words first, her analyst brain interrupts, reminds.

Maka pulls away from him breathlessly, boldly meets warm, needy red eyes, and manages a quiet, "We need to talk."

His face falls, his hand goes to the back of his hair, and he swallows visibly but nods. "Yeah, alright."

The look that replaces the needy anticipation and sheer joy from seconds before rends her heart, so she grabs his hand and tows him to the large leather couch, seating herself in the middle and tugging him down to sit next to her in one corner.

"So." Maka looks down at her hands, smooths down the fabric of her jeans. "Um, Wes and Liz are getting a room for the night, so we have time—"

"Yeah," Soul interrupts her so she looks up, and she hates the blank mask he wears. "I know." His mask gives way to her confused look and he offers a hesitant grin as he hands her his phone.

Under the text contact listed as _Fucking Wes_ there's a new entry:

_Reserved a room at the Bonaventure. Won't be home until tomorrow night. Feel free to thank me later. _

Rolling her eyes, Maka laughs. "Very thoughtful." She's about to hand back the phone when another text springs into existence:

_Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Or really, do everything I would do and you normally wouldn't._

Shaking her head, Maka hands back the phone. "How your brother manages to be so charming and such an asshole at the same time, I will never understand."

"Definitely a mystery for the ages," he agrees as he pockets his phone, but really, Maka is _grateful_. For all his teasing presumption, Wes has managed to break the tension between them with nothing more than a text. Maybe now they can really talk.

One deep, cleansing breath later, and she's ready. "Look, I just—wanted to apologize, for not texting you back about that concert. I had just moved here from DC and I wasn't sure what to say, so I—"

"Wait, wait, hold on—" He's leaned her way, looking stunned. "Moved—_here?_"

"Yeah." Maka manages a weak smile, because she's happy to be here and proud of what she's accomplished, but that doesn't erase the guilt she feels, the words she needs to say. Still, she'll need to explain that bit if they're to move forward and—her being here—well_, _it _is _pretty important for that, too. "A week ago. Right before the DC concert. LAPD requested me, want me to continue my work as their FBI liaison."

"Maka that's—amazing!" His face lights up, and her own smile widens.

"Thanks, I'm really excited about it! LA is such a large metropolis, there's so much I can do here! And—" she shakes her head because this isn't about her work, these aren't the words she needs to say. "That's—not important right now." She sighs.

"But—"

Maka holds a hand up, trying to keep her face impassive. There are still a thousand thousand emotions boiling just under the surface and keeping them in check is difficult.

"We can talk about it later, I promise. I _want _to talk about it, to tell you everything that's going on if you want to hear it. I just—need to explain first, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Soul's face has also resettled into careful neutrality; he's still much better at that than she has ever been.

"So. After everything happened and we ended the whole thing—"

"_You_ ended." It's bitter and that hurts.

"You're right." Maka sighs again. "I thought I was doing what was best for both of us, but I was wrong." His red eyes swim with emotion as she says it, and before she knows what she's doing, she's taken up his hand, large and warm and strong, in her own, settling their clasped hands into the inches between them on the couch.

"I missed you." The strain of emotion in his voice cuts her.

"I know." Her voice is soft, careful. "Kim showed me the interview you did."

"I—" Soul looks surprised. "I'm sorry. Ox pushed me into it, and I shouldn't have—"

"No, I'm glad you did." Maka squeezes his hand. "Because I was being stupid, and I thought it would be easier to drift apart, but it made me see this isn't just about me and my feelings."

Shaking his head, the hurt is back in his eyes, though he squeezes her hand tightly. "But you ghosted me."

"Yeah," she admits. "I—I don't know. I didn't know what do, what to say. I was afraid of hurting you again, never meant to—meant to—so I did something even _more stupid_, and I'm sorry. I was being a coward, and I don't deserve—don't deserve—"

Maka will not cry—_she will not._ She blinks back threatening tears, holding onto his warm, strong hand for dear life, and before she can continue, he squeezes back again.

"You do. I promise, you do."

The words feel like a lie though she knows it's his truth. She accepts it, accepts what he offers, and makes no protest, just squeezes back. It soothes, his forgiveness. It's what she needs, maybe what they both need, to move forward.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she wants to scream or curse or something, because she's just finally gotten out a huge chunk of what she needed to say to clear the air and they're on the threshold of—_something_— but it could be work, so she groans and says, "I gotta check this, just a sec," as she digs it out.

It's not work—it's Liz. She's texted a link:

_Just FYI._

Clicking it, because Maka knows Liz wouldn't be texting her now, of all times, if it weren't important, she blinks down as her screen fills with an image of her own back. She is holding Soul who is holding her in his dressing room. Next to the first image is another, taken seconds later. Her face is outrage incarnate, Soul's is made of fury, and the headline makes her want to defenestrate her phone because they've made the main article of this trash tabloid website:

**CAUGHT!****_ Death Scythes_**** Bassist Unmasked as Billionaire Second Son as he Makes Out with FBI Girlfriend!**

Scanning down confirms her worst fears:

_You heard it here first! The Death Scythes bad boy bassist Soul Eater is really Soul Evans, the spare heir to the Evans family fortune, younger brother to party boy violinist Wes Evans. Talk about a juicy scoop! But it gets better, faithful Gorgonistas! _

_Not only is the elusive second Evans heir masquerading as a scene kid, but he's managed to snag himself a badass! The less than busty blonde in the picture is one Maka Albarn, newest FBI liaison to the LAPD—_

Unable to stifle her groan, when Soul squeezes her hand again with a questioning look, she thrusts her phone his way.

As he grabs it, his eyes widen.

"_Fuck," _he groans out. "I'm so fucking sorry." He hands the phone back and removes the hand in hers to run it through the back of his hair. "I knew it would be bad, I just — your back was to her at first and I didn't they'd ID you. _Fuck_."

His hand is working the back of his neck now restlessly; he's _panicking_ and Maka's not sure what to do because her own stomach feels sick with dread.

"Soul, we can—"

Suddenly, his eyes clear, focus, settle on her, determination writ large on his face.

"It's fine we'll just—break up again." Maka can see what it costs him to say it. "I'll tell them it didn't work out and they'll lose interest pretty fast. You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"Neither should you." Her voice is firm. "And anyway, we weren't even making out yet."

Soul's face twists into a grim smile. "Try telling _them_ that."

"We could," she agrees. "We could even just tell them we're dating. If we announce it and start doing mundane things like moving in together and mainling Netflix, they should get bored quickly enough. If we come out with it, we make it a non-story."

His look, stunned and hopeful, makes her heart swell, but he shutters it off quickly, the reserved mask back in place.

"I can't impose on you like that. That's why we stopped the whole charade in the first place, remember?"

"What if it's not imposing? What if it's not a charade? What if it's just the truth?"

The stunned look has returned full force. "You—" Soul swallows visibly "—want it to be the truth? I mean—_is it _the truth?" Hope floods his red, red eyes, so she snatches up his hand again, squeezes again.

"For my part," Maka says slowly, carefully. "I think I'd like it to be, yes. All that pretending—well—by the end, it didn't really feel like pretending anymore, and I got scared but—" she squeezes his hand again. "Soul, I'm not scared anymore. And I've missed you._ A lot_."

"Maka." The way he says her name, she shifts and leans and he does the same and once again their lips meet, warm and soft and right.

Because whatever this is, these feelings, this thing they're building together, it's long since ceased being for pretend. Whatever this is, through every crossed signal and all their missed social cues, it's finally, blissfully real, and in the end, that's all that matters.


	6. Epilogue: Vindication

Watching the interview, Liz kind of wants to shout it at the screen, but it's not like they'd hear it. She also kind of sort of wants to shout it at Wes, but he's not home—so basically, she can only think it to herself, loudly, forcefully.

_I fucking knew it!_

It's a week after the concert and she's sitting in the living room at home, waiting for her nails to dry. The interview is on a local morning show, Maka and Soul on the couch together side by side, his arm around her shoulders. He's not in his normal get up, just looks like himself, gelled white hair, striking red eyes, and all. Maka is wearing a smart little skirt and sweater combo. In typical Soul fashion, he's in a band tee shirt and ripped jeans. It's the most relaxed Liz has ever seen him look in an interview—the stick only looks about a quarter of the way shoved up his ass this time.

"So you two were dating before?" the host asks with polite interest. She's fairly generic looking, thirties, thin and blonde, wearing a designer pantsuit as she sits with her legs crossed on a plush chair opposite them.

"Yes," Maka offers with a practiced smile. "But I was still in Florida then and it was... well, complicated, so we decided it was best to go our separate ways. You can see how long that lasted!" she adds with a laugh.

"So you moved to LA to be together?"

"No." On the screen, Maka purses her lips in mild distaste at the suggestion. "I moved to LA for my work. But it definitely made it easier to accept the offer."

"I'd have moved for her if she hadn't gotten the offer," Soul puts in unbidden, and the audience makes loud noises off adoration and approval at the sentiment. "But since she came to me, the least I could do is give her a place to call home."

There are cheers and whistles at this, and the host says, "So, you're moving in together?"

"Already have." He shrugs. "All domestic and shit with take out and netflix."

_Why those little—little—ingrates! _

Liz can't believe they've ghosted her for a whole goddamn _week_, left her completely hanging, and then _moved in together? _Just—what the _hell_?

"Sounds nice." The host flashes a knowing smile. "Netflix and chill, then?"

Liz chuckles as both Maka and Soul go scarlet on the couch and the audience roars with their own laughter.

As the audience quiets again, the host then remarks, "I like the new look. And a new name to go with it, right? Soul 'Eater' Evans? Does this mean Soul Eater is officially dead?"

Soul grins at that, showing off his sharp, pearly whites. "Nah, Soul Eater is me and I'm Soul Eater. It was just time to cut the bullshit. Soul Eater is alive and well and playing the charity concert at Griffith Park next week with the _Death Scythes_."

The camera pans away from the couple on the couch as the audience cheers and the host thanks them for their time. Liz clicks off the television, leaning back in utter satisfaction.

She'd definitely been right. Ox totally owed her a hundred bucks, that skinny little low romance bastard. Lingering irritation at Maka and Soul for their current avoidance fades at the realization that they really _have_ found each other.

So maybe they'd pretended at first, and maybe she'd been stupid enough to buy it, but in the end, she had been right—they _are _good together.

Still, Liz thinks to herself with no small measure of satisfaction, those assholes had better name their firstborn after her for putting her through that level of bullshit.


End file.
